Planet Magazine December Quarter 2001 * Issue No. 32 (Vol. 8, No. 4) ------------------------------ Wild Science Fiction & Fantasy on the Web -- Since 1994 Price: M$12 (Mars dollars) TABLE OF CONTENTS CH001 Editorial & Letters CH002 About the Authors CH003 About the Artists CH004 About this Magazine STORIES CH005 Alien Utopia by Pat Hartsfield CH006 A Panther Inside by Mike Velichansky CH007 Duel With A Devil by Sean K. Twyford CH008 Family Ties by E.S. Strout CH009 The Flower & The Sentinel by Steve Davison CH010 Getting Game by Steve Davis CH011 Learning to Walk in the Age of Machines by Michael Athey CH012 Open Twenty-Four Hours by Edward McKeown CH013 Planet Circus by C.C. Parker CH014 Sergeant Stone: Hard to Forget by Hathno Paige CH015 Slip-stream by Glenn H. Morris CH016 The Taboos of Tatoos by Ed Lynskey CH017 Trevor's Junkyard by William Alan Rieser CH018 The Weapon by Michael Elmore POEMS CH019 The Barbarian's Tale by Lee Daniel Guest CH020 Comet Borrelly by Romeo Esparrago CH021 Paint the Planet Red by Andrew G. McCann Planet Magazine: Voted the hottest* SF zine on the Web! (* Post-surgical enhancement.) ------------------------------ CH001 Editorial & Letters Planet: Now super-charged with Scifene and Fantasol! Same great taste! NOTICE!! Protect Your Health & the Health of the Public! Read Science Fiction... at the start of your day, and especially after: - Handling raw fools - Crashing any workstations (PC or Mac) - Returning from a bar crawl - Coughing, sneezing, or "pooting" Or any other action that could cause contamination. This has been a public service announcement (in lieu of a Planet Magazine editorial, which makes it twice as beneficial) from the following supra-galactic agencies or their patsies: Commander Biedermeier X. Leeuewenhoek, Dept. of Science Fiction - The Earth Protectorate Thithp of Blipp MCVII, Executive Director Public S.F. Programs Agency, DoSF - T.E.P. "Lord John Smith", Official Friend of The Humans(tm) Honorary Planetary Commissioner of Science Fiction Andrew G. McCann, Editor of Planet Magazine Ministry of Truth - The United Nations & Worlds Posted: November 2001 Letters To The Editor Dear HuMan Editor: We aliens of planet Zak wanted you to know that one of our FAVE HuMan authors -- Tony Chandler, whose tales regularly appear at your fine and prestigous Zine, now has his first novel in paperback!!! ZOUNDS! Not only is Tony a most intellgent, thought-provoking writer, but he is darn good-looking too (to a HuMan, that is). Here is our blurb: MotherShip by Tony Chandler is now at BarnesAndNoble.com, and soon at Amazon.com. All sites carrying MotherShip as ebook or paperback are listed on the main page of www.tonychandler.com. "The T'kaan have brought their never-ending war to the human race... as they face final defeat, a group of scientists integrate Artificial Intelligence into the ultimate warship designed to defeat the T'kaan ships. The 'M' ship is victorious, but it is too late to change the tide of the war. As Earth is destroyed, the last survivors of the human race, three children, escape on-board the AI starship. Soon, they begin to call the ship Mother..." Tony's stories of high-adventure among the stars have thrilled us Zakkians for several planetary cycles. We have even thought about abducting him and taking him with us back to Zak, but were afraid of an Earth attack, Jack. The Great Gonzo Zak does have a big cheesy request: more Kragon, D'tang, and Chase -- what ever happned to them, HuMAN?? But read MotherShip NOW!, a story whose heart is 'family, courage and love'. Even an old battle-axe like Zak lacked it. Live Long and Have MUCH Fun. Zak Calack-MackaDack Dear Editor: I'm a fan of horror and science fiction stories... I've recently read the tale "The Night Wire", by H. F. Arnold, but when I tried to look for some biographical information on him... there was absolutely nothing on the entire Web... Do you or your readers know something about his life? Thanks for your help... and best regards from Argentina! Maria [Editor's Note: If anyone has info on this author, please send it to us, and we will forward it to the reader above. The story in question can be read here: http://www.sff.net/people/DoyleMacdonald/l_nightw.htm]. Dear Editor: I would like to take this opportunity to introduce the "Interstellar" range of science fiction adventure stories. I feel that they will appeal to a wide range of people, and provide hours of entertainment for adults and children alike. There are currently six stories in the series, which appear as chapbooks or on CD-ROM, and full details are available from my Web site: www.amazola.fsnet.co.uk I have already received an enthusiastic response and I feel that a mention in your magazine would greatly help to promote them further. Yours Hopefully Adrian Holland Dear Editor: I have just finished reading "Qarzaak" by Tony Chandler and I will definitely be buying his novel when it comes out on the basis of how good the short story was. Stories like Qarzaak are the reason I read sci-fi: for real, character-driven moral and ethical issues, not just an exposition on cool gadgetry or hard-science (I can read "Scientific American" or talk to my husband's cousin the physicist for that). The whole part of the main character wondering if there was really an Earth was great, and the dilemma over what to tell the Qazaark authorities about his fellow human Merk, and the climax of his humanity triumphing in a great, quiet way left me craving more. What's going to happen when this guy sees women? What has been happening with the women? I feel like I have all these questions and I'm left with one option: write you and tell you to request the author for another Qazaark story with Enon. Pretty please with the Milky Way on top? Hoping, Hoping, Hoping, Kelly Tarlow Dear Editor: The Baltimore Science Fiction Society has linked to your site at our site of http://www.bsfs.org/bsfszine.htm Please list us on your links page back to our site at http://www.bsfs.org As you can see we have many resources of interest to science fiction fans and we are a non-profit educational organization, so helping us to find other folks who love SF is a good deed. Thank you for your time and consideration. Dale S. Arnold Dear Editor: We have launched the first in a series of nine novels called 'The Ennead'. Although we shall later publish a print counterpart, we chose to release the first novel in this series, Rogue Titan, online at http://www.roguetitan.com. The online novel's site introduces our company, Lucid Foundry, to the general public. This is a statement of who we are, what we do, and what can be expected from us in near future. Lucid Foundry http://www.lucidfoundry.com Dear Editor: Just wanted to say thanks. With the recent events here in the States I needed a bit of escape-time. Your site has more than filled that need with its diverse and wonderful assortment of stories. And thanks again for providing the artists a forum in which to show off their talent. Sincerely, Darrell L. Letters to Confirmed Allies of The US Dear San Marino: My 20-year experiment is over. And I have been able to prove that no two dishwasher loads are ever exactly alike (assuming uniform detergent, wash/rinse/dry cycle, dishwasher brand, etc., as well as consistent number of food particles, and allowing for substitution of any utensils or dishes as they wear out). My statistical database is actually quite small, and I'm looking for my results to be quickly confirmed -- ideally through a computer simulation that models a typical household's eating and dishwashing patterns. Please alert me as soon as your simulation finishes its run, as I want to get my application in ASAP for next year's Nobel Prize in Dishwashing Sciences. I know you'll enjoy the experience, as Planet Dishwasher Magazine's interest in dishwashing methodologies is well-documented. In the meantime, I've got to get back to the kitchen and start cleaning. Heck, I've only done one load of dishes in the past two decades (hence my confidence in the purity of my results), and that means a lotta stacks o' dirty dishes to wash! Cleanly, D. Terjint Dear Andorra: I have seen the face of evil, and it looks like my housemate Rick! This morning, at 7:52 a.m., approximately, he ate the last sesame bagel we had from The Bagel Haus. That bagel was mine! Plus, he drank the last of the apple juice, which would have gone a long way toward fixing this hangover of mine. So, to me, that is the face of evil, I guess. Anyway, we still have some Lucky Charms left. Regards, O. Sam 'Abe' Enlauden Dear Disneyland: My name is Eno (no, not the funny-looking guy who played keyboards for Roxy Music and later produced U2, although I do like to play piano from time to time), and I live in a place called The Matricks (no, not "The Matrix" from the movie of the same name, although coincidentally my world is also a computer simulation in which people encased, asleep, in alien pods dream their so-called "normal" lives). I have just discovered that I am he who is known as "The Eon" -- that special individual who my people have been awaiting for years. The Eon is a person who, while living inside The Matricks, has the ability to rise above and beyond the virtual world and to control it to some degree. Unfortunately, the abilities of The Eon are strictly limited to opening file folders in the underlying OS of the virtual world and to navigating the folder and file hierarchies. I don't seem to be able to open any documents or apps within these folders, much less re-code anything, as The Eon apparently doesn't have the required helper apps, conversion filters, or even root-level permission built-in to his powers, not to mention knowledge of alien programming languages (too bad I'm not fighting those PowerBook-friendly invaders in the movie "Independence Day"). Still, it's fun to open the file folder of the virtual agents when they are chasing me and watching, for example, gun.exe open, which then clues me in to hit the floor. So it seems I cannot help my people much after all. But that's OK, because they are also waiting for someone named Oen, a wino who is also expected to be "The Noe" -- an individual who can rise above and beyond this cyber-world in which we are trapped and reorganize it into a decisive Japanese Noh-type play, mixed in with a bit of Christmas spectacular-type imagery. I expect that will have some kind of use for my people, somehow. Oh no! Here comes another cyber-agent! Gotta run! Hey, looks like he's opening an app called traceemailtoplanetmagazineletterscolumnandkill.exe, located within a folder called "Chump". Interesting. Later, Enooooooooooooooo... Dear Mac User Group of Southeast Ohio: My girlfriend of more than two months has stated that I am arrogant and boring and has, in her view, "left me for good". Now this is a ridiculous claim, and I shall endeavor to refute it. To begin with, let me illustrate my preamble with a short Web-enabled presentation of several Powerpoint charts that summarize the log of relationship events that I scrupulously kept during my courtship of my erstwhile girlfriend. The first pie chart, ironically, will show how she never cooked me a single pie -- even though our dating contract stipulated this and emphasized that pies are my favorite food, whether meat, fruit, vegetable, dairy-based or "other". So, let us start. Slide, please. OK, this will take a moment. The first slide, please! Hello!? Hmm, nothing's happening. Are there any Internet officials running this slide show, or what? This is truly, truly a shame -- it's quite a good chart. Very clear. Well... it looks as if I will have to postpone the rest of this letter until the next issue. Till Then, I.M. Pei LoVerre Dear Shangri-La: Ho, there! I am also absolutely juiced about "The Fellowship of the Ring" movie that's fiercely bearing down on us like a Giant Intelligent Eagle from the days of yore! But I'm writing in to tell you that I've done a little bit of digging with my sources online and found out some great news for fans! The entire Fellowship itself -- brave little Frodo, his simperin' sidekick Ringo, and all the members of the various Middle-Earth races (specifically, Spiderman of the Super Elves, Han Solo of the Rebel Forces, Harry Potter of the Wizardfolk, Commandor Data of the Androids, Shrek of the Ogres, Darth Maul of the Sith, Laura Croft of the Babes, as well as a Lotto bonus number of 53) -- will be chuggin' down Mountain Dew during the whole flick! This is the fave beverage of me and my crew, so this is practically the best news to cruise down the pike since the Diablo Expansion Pack! What's extra kewl is that the Dew cans will have special powers in the movie when wielded by the Ring-Bearer -- they'll be able to shoot from his hands, kill enemies by punching bloody holes through their chests, and then whip back and pour some gold-green nectar down the throat of the sweatin', ripped Frodo as he sprays off round after round from his plasma-bullet rifle! Hey, sure, none of this stuff was in Tolkien's books (although I've never read them), but some guy online told me he read somewhere that it doesn't matter. Awesome!! Do the Dew, FroDew! Smell Ya Later, Sauron1439428923412341@aol.com Dear United Casino Tribes of North America: Now that Hollywood is airbrushing out all images of the World Trade Center from movies, will book publishers have to recall and rename all copies of the second book of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (i.e.,"The Two Towers")? Anyway, it should really be called "The Four Towers", since you've got Cirith Ungol, Orthanc, Minas Mordor, and Minas Tirith -- if I remember correctly the Middle Earth geography class I took at the California School of New Learning & Crystal Shoppe. And no, I don't think I'm very funny either. Regards, Mary Lee Tolkien (no relation to J.R.R.) Dear Powerpuff Girls: I'm a Bully-in-Training and am seeking some guidance. My teachers cannot help me with my problem, and I have nowhere else to turn. Here are the painful facts: Every time I am facing a potential victim, I become paralyzed with indecision. Do I 'pants' the victim, or do I give the victim a 'wedgie'? And as I stand there dithering, inevitably the intended targets makes good his or her escape. Since the first method of intimidation involves removing an article of clothing, and the latter involves actually forcing an article of clothing to adhere ever more closely to the victim's body (in this case to the vertical concave aperture separating the two semi-spheres of the glutius maximus), I am afraid my hesitancy represents some underlying ambivalency about becoming a professional bully. Frankly, my emotions are a-flutter 'n' my thoughts are a-twirl. Please help me, Obulli-wan, you're my only hope. Thanksies, Skye Linewalker [Editor's Note: If we could only give you a cyber-swirly, we would -- just to swirl some sense into your head! Your situation seems extremely silly and unlikely. Plus you've written to the fake letters section of Planet Magazine! Doesn't that give you a clue? You're a fictional character, for the love of Darth! Still, it doesn't mean you can't live a happy life... except that I've just given you a pants-ing and a wedgie at the same time! Yes, just now I did. I am The Yoditor, I can do many impossible things. Yes. Do these I can. Even so, The Fist in you is strong, young Skye, but you have much to learn yet from us ancient Jesti Knights!!] Dear Iceland: I have read that your pop star Bjork is an athiest who does not even believe in Bjesus. How can this bje? She is so talented and bjeautiful. I feel bjetrayed. Bjest, Heidi Ho Dear Freedonia: Hello-hello-hello. I just-just-just wanted to write-write-write and say how much-much-much I enjoy-joy-joy reading your magazine-zine-zine. We live in a very rural area-area-area and are unable to get many-many-many Web sites-sites-sites down here in Echo-Echo-Echo Canyon-Canyon-Canyon. Sincerely-Sincerely-Sincerely A. Ko Dear Rivendell: This police profiling is wrong. Recently, I was stopped at JFK airport because I "fit the profile", according to the cops who dragged me out of the ticket line -- where I was minding my own business, playing the Pokemon Crystal edition on my custom-painted GameBoy -- and into a small brightly lit room off the main concourse. They sat me in a chair and said it was clear from my Bill Gates haircut and 'I Love Oni' T-shirt that I was a "serious Sci-Fi fan" and likely run an RPG-fan Web site as well as own either a home-built PC or a tangerine iMac. All of these elements of what they call "The Nerd Profile" may be true in my case (although I pointed out that the proper term is 'SF', and it's a graphite iMac!), but I asked them why they thought I could be a danger to anyone. They said I clearly wasn't a danger at all, and that the only reason they were pulling me aside is because they were bored that day and knew that I was a 'wuss' and wouldn't do anything about it. I clearly remember the seargant sitting lumpily on the desk in front of me and saying with a sneer, "So... Where's your friend Gandalf now, punk?", while his accomplices all guffawed. Then they gave me a five-alarm noogie and released me. On the bright side, though, the whole unpleasant incident inspired me to do a little 'Pokemon profiling' of my own -- and I was able to capture all of the little fellows myself before my flight landed. BTW, I am not the editor of Planet Magazine writing under a pseudonym; I'm some other guy. Regards, Watt A. Takky-Houks Dear Mole People: I'm a large coconut-layer cake being displayed in the middle of a bakery window in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. All day, people have been coming by and staring at me through the plate glass. Just staring, mouths open. Staring and staring and staring. It's starting to drive me a little loco-nut, if you know what I mean. And it pisses me off, too. The gaping eyes, the slack mouths! I wanna take them all on, I just want to scream, "C'mon, you wanna piece of me?" But I can't do that, can I? Not if I want to... live. It's been a real slice of hell. With Layers of Meaning, KoKo "Nutt" Cayk Dear Wiccan Federation of Antartica: Dere wuz dat article dat video games hurt yer brane. I don't fink so. Dey never hert my brane. I kouldn't spel befor anyways. I'm ackersherlly usin diktation softwear to rite this lettir and eatin' a peenut budder 'n' jellee sammich at de same time 'n' got peenut budder all over my fingirs. Bye-buy, Hugh "Mongous" Gobb Winner, Nathan's Peanut-Butter-Eating Contest, 2001 Dear Editor: I don't know why that judge ordered me to take defenestrative driving classes, when it's clear that all of my troubles have been caused by other drivers unfairly ganging up on me, by trying to pass me or go faster than me. When they do that, of course I throw things out my car window (i.e., defenestrate items) at them. Wouldn't you? So if that's not defenestrative driving, I don't know what is. And I don't. Hey judge: Chomp Dis, which is Latin for "bite me"! Regards, I. Donte Planet Magazine is brought to you by "Smocha -- the cigarette-flavored coffee". ------------------------------ CH002 About the Authors Michael Athey ("Learning to Walk in the Age of Machines") is a student at the University of Kansas, where he's finishing up his bachelor's degree in psychology. He is inspired mostly by the works of Ray Bradbury, Alfred Bester, and Philip K. Dick. Other works of his have been published at "The Prose Menagerie", "Shadowshow", the "Skandalized Human Zine", and Peridot Books, and "The Unknown Writer". This work is his first dip into science fiction. E-mail: shurikeneo@hotmail.com Ray Dangel (Associate Editor), can best be described by revealing what he is not. He is not tall, handsome, rich, famous, arrogant, a clothes horse, a sports buff, a political person, a power freak, a whiner, or a yes man. One positive aspect is that Ray loves to read and write flash fiction; his shortest published tale was a mere 32 words long. E-mail: radangel@yahoo.com Steve Davis ("Getting Game") is a pizza-delivery driver/ circuitboard assembler/ freelancer trying to write interesting science fiction. The last part's challenging. Living in Phoenix helps, as Steve is surrounded by the Sonoran desert, as close as one can get right now to another world. Steve's non-fiction, technology journalism, and stories have appeared in an odd range of magazines, from "Archaeology" to "Wired". His stories also have been published in "4th Media", "Cedar Rapids Gazette", "Computer Graphics", "Des Moines Business Record", "Electronic Education", "Electronic Learning", "Farm Industry News", "Iowa City Press-Citizen", "Iowa Commerce", "Office World News", "Payson Roundup", "Semiconductor News", "Today's Office", and more. E-mail: SD071451@msn.com Steve Davison ("The Flower and The Sentinel") was born in 1964 in Blyth, a coal mining-based port in the north of England, and had always thought he'd get round to writing one day. Inspiration came after reading Dennis L. McKiernan's "Iron Tower Trilogy". He says he decided not to wait to be hit by a car and be bed-ridden to do his writing. ;-) So he left his job in London for three years, to be a househusband and write three books: "Eye & Sword" (Sword & Sorcery), "The Reality Gap" (Science Fantasy, written in the first-person), and "Mindhole" (Modern Horror Fantasy). It was the most rewarding time of his life. You can review all of his books at "dark-print"... www.fluidspace.co.uk/dark-print. Steve now works as a freelance 3-D designer doing interiors, exhibitions, and commercial presentations, and you can visit his site at...www.stevedavison.co.uk. He says that he is as happily married as it is possible for a human to be and has a wonderful son. He is graded at 1st Dan in Aikido and likes playing Microsoft's "Age of Empires". E-mail: stevedavison@yahoo.com Michael Elmore ("The Weapon") is a 23-year-old mental health worker living in rural Georgia. He writes most of his short stories while working the night shift. Michael has been published online at "Aphelion". E-mail: elmore21@msn.com Romeo Esparrago ("Comet Borrelly", associate editor-type thingy) recently discovered past memories of himself that had been buried. Buried under ice, to be exact. Apparently, he was some sort of US Army "super soldier" who, alongside his young buddy Buchanan or Buckteeth (can't remember too well, but it was something like that), battled World War II baddies with delusions of powers above normal men. He somehow got frozen and wound up being discovered in some giant, floating ice cube by some pointy-eared guy named Spock (no, that's Star Trek), err...Namath. No, Joe Namor -- that's it, I think. A nyway, he forgot all about this until Samuel L. Jackson kept bugging him about it (no, he kept pestering Bruce Willis, jeez). Well, Romeo still needs to work out this puzzle after discovering the dusty, flag-covered skintight outfit (with a 4' diameter star-spangled shield, can you believe it?!?) in his attic. Until he remembers his secret origin, Romeo will continue his role as an avenging angel with the rank of Captain in his local justice society. Nuff said! E-mail: public@romedome.com Web-site: http://www.romedome.com/ Lee Daniel Guest ("The Barbarian's Tale") is 23 years old and trained as an artist from 1994 to 1998. He recently started to write poetry and fantasy fiction. His idols are Robert E. Howard, Frank Frazetta, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Leo Tolstoy, and Yngwie Johan Malmsteen. E-mail: ldguest@btinternet.com Pat Hartsfield ("Alien Utopia") is a youth pastor in Oregon, where he works with teens by day and writes by night. He lives there with his wife Audrey and children, Caitlin and Caleb. E-mail: Crosspointyouth@juno.com Ed Lynskey ("The Taboos of Tatoos") is a country boy presently subsisting in the 'burbs outside Washington, D.C., with his wife and two cats. When not transfixed at the computer screen, he likes to attend movies and outdoor concerts. That and long drives back to the countryside, green and lush. E-mail: e_lynskey@yahoo.com Andrew G. McCann ("Paint The Planet Red", Editor) has a "Theory of Every 'Theory of Everything'", but is unable to think it because it, or maybe he, is literally too simple to understand. E-mail: editor@planetmag.com Edward McKeown ("Open Twenty-Four Hours") was born in NYC and moved to Charlotte in 1985, where he writes, teaches martial arts and lives with his artist-wife Schelly Keefer. His work has been published in the SF E-zine "Millennium", "The Captain's Log", and the art newspaper "Independence Boulevard". He also won first prize in the Canadian "X the Unknown" contest for 2000, for his short story "New York Minute". E-mail: ed_mckeown@rsausa.com Glenn H. Morris ("Slip-stream") is married with two children and currently resides in Spring City, PA. Glenn currently works as a Systems Analyst and enjoys writing Science Fiction/Horror stories. Some of them can be found at Glenn's web site at www.glennmorris.com. E-mail: glennhmorris@yahoo.com Hathno Paige ("Sergeant Stone: Hard to Forget") is an exotic dancer specializing in early-Amish and Shaker styles. E-mail: hathno@hotmail.com C.C. Parker ("Planet Circus") lives in Seattle with his wife and daughter. He's appeared in the following. E-zines: Deviant Minds, Alternate Realities, Planet Magazine, Suspect Thoughts, Apocalypse Fiction, Dark Muse, Demensions, The Murder Hole, Fuzzclog, Tantalus Fire, No Boundaries, Fantastic Metropolis, and SHZine. Hardcopy journals: More Than That and Demontia. C.C. has been writing for as along as he can remember, and he doesn't intend to stop. E-mail: Nazoch3@aol.com William Alan Rieser ("Trevor's Junkyard") was born in NYC way back there, somewhere around the time King Kong was climbing the Empire State building. He did mostly music for an early career. He now lives in Fort Worth, Texas with his wife Sandra. He's retired and having fun writing novels and short stories. Least favorite food: asparagus; Favorite sport: giant squid harness racing. Views on being serious: hardly ever. Author of: "The Kaska Trilogy - Gam, Pmat & Kesht" and "The Zusalem Chronicles - The Find & Pathandu". E-mail: WRieser283@aol.com Web site: http://rieserbooks.homestead.com/rieserbooks.html E.S. Strout ("Family Ties") has been published in small-press print magazines "Crossroads", "Lovecraft's Mystery Magazine", "Fading Shadows", "Mad Scientist", and "Millennium Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine". His stories have also appeared in the Internet publications "Jackhammer", "Beyond s-f", "Millennium SF&F", and "Demensions". E.S. Strout is on the faculty of the U.C. Irvine Medical Center, where he teaches skin pathology to dermatology residents. E-mail: gino_ss@earthlink.net Sean K. Twyford ("Duel with a Devil") is an ordinary 49-year-old bloke, married, with five sons (all sons unfortunately!). He lives in the English Market Town of Ripley, near Derby. Sean has been an avid reader of SF since the age of 10 (from Asimov/Clarke on the one hand to Bear/Egan/Le Guin on the other). He has been writing now about two years and to that end has joined a local Writers Group. Publishing successes so far include stories with "Planet Prozac", "Dragon Laugh", "Pro Martians Alien Wave", "Beyond the Border", "Fading Shadows", and "Fighting Chance". E mail: sseankt@aol.com Mike Velichansky ("A Panther Inside") is currently a freshman at the University of Maryland College Park, majoring in English. He loves it and is having a great time; sometimes, he even learns a bit. (Though his workshop is pissing him off slightly; people there would rather read something with no plot at all than sully their hands with SF.) Mike reads all the time. The following are but a few: Ellison, Vonnegut, Gaiman (go read "American Gods"!), Spider Robinson (who's read this magazine! Holy shit!). Feel free to contact him and tell him what you think. Last story he had at PlanetMag, somebody named John Milder wrote asking where he got the name, so maybe this time it'll be an ancient god. It'll be cool. We'll hang out. Mike's favorite quote from his workshop: "I know sci-fi has a very rigid style and structure regarding plot, but you could try." --Paul Cacciato. E-mail: kroosk@icqmail.com Tom Wagner (Associate Editor) writes memos all day long and lives in the hope that they will one day be assembled into a larger work similar to that produced by a million monkeys banging away on a million Commodore 64 FULL COLOR computers. E-mail: thomas_p_wagner@hotmail.com It might not have been science fiction or fantasy, but then again it might have been. Farewell Ken Kesey. ------------------------------ CH003 About the Artists Jon Eke (art for "Duel With A Devil" "The Flower and The Sentinel", and "Learning to Walk in the Age of Machines") was born in 1967 in Amersham, north of London, and grew up in the Midlands before moving to Merseyside in 1986, where he currently works in the operating theatres at the local NHS hospital. Apart from computer art, his other main hobbies are astronomy, photography, and writing highly personal science fiction tales. Among his favourite writers he includes James Tiptree, Jr., Cordwainer Smith, Philip K Dick, Samuel Delany, Barry Malzberg, William Burroughs, Robert Aickman, Ramsey Campbell, Clark Ashton Smith, and H.P.Lovecraft (truth be told, he's top of the list). Jon is also a member of the Ghost Story Society, and his main ambition in life is to write just one truly successful ghost story. If he manages that, he'll die a happy man!. To create his artwork, Jon chiefly uses Photoshop 5.5, Paintshop Pro 6.1, and Photo Plus 4 (which is a bit basic but does have some handy tools). His pictures are essentially montages, mixtures of just about anything he can lay his hands on that he thinks will be useful, as well as some of his own photography. Although Jon has a definite idea in his head of what he wants to produce when he starts out, he often finds that experimenting with various tools will produce something far more interesting. He just follows his instincts until he has a piece of work that he's happy with. E-mail: jon@galaxy5.fsnet.co.uk Web-site: http://community.webshots.com/album/6928532RwJTqzJFQV Romeo Esparrago (art for "A Panther Inside", "Comet Borrelly", and "Sergeant Stone: Hard to Forget") just came back from some ocean research about what would happen if humans bit surfboards. He did this without his spectacles, and unfortunately, bit several sharks by accident. In response, swarms of sharks gathered at the beaches, to protect themselves from him. He believes the shark community's news media is overhyping and exaggerating things, portraying him unjustly as a monstrous creature. Romeo's graphic tools include a Wacom tablet, his father-in-law's Sony digital Mavica camera, Procreate's Painter 7, Adobe's ImageStyler and ImageReady, his beloved G4 Titanium PowerBook, and occasionally, the pencil & napkin. To see more of his art, check out The Modern Word's Scriptorium on the late sci-fi author Philip K. Dick at: http://www.themodernword.com/scriptorium/dick.html E-mail: public@romedome.com Carl Goodman (art for "cover illustration", "Family Ties," "Getting Game", and "Open Twenty-Four Hours") is married with one son, lives in Surrey, UK, and has been doing computer graphics for a living since the late 1980s. A lot of his work has been based around fairly technical visualistion projects, but a while back he joined a computer animation company as director of graphics research and development, which means that basically he gets to evaluate all the leading-edge technologies associated with CGI and provide due diligence for venture capitalists on various projects. Carl has had a fair bit of material published in consumer media in the past, including animation work for Reuters on the Shoemaker-Levy 9 impact, which was shown on news channels in 22 separate countries. He also had some illustrations of this event published in "New Scientist" magazine. Carl is also an avid reader of what might be thought of as "hard core" science fiction, with a strong bias towards the Clarke-Asimov-Heinlein-Niven stable, and enjoys the opportunity to visualise concepts. In terms of tools, most of Carl's work is in 3-D, using Max 4, character studio for animation, Deep Paint 3d for textures, Photoshop, Corel Xara for linework (less of a pain in the neck than Illustrator!) and simulation plug-ins like phoenix and havoc. Peppersghost.com has updated its site recently won a BAFTA award for www.tinyplanets.com -- best entertainment site 2001. E-mail: carl.goodman@peppersghost.com Web-site: www.peppersghost.com Ellie Hradsky (art for "Slip-stream"), twenty-five years ago, worked for a photographer who was heavy into science fiction as she was. He knew a man who claimed he was in contact with alien beings and that he had photographs and info he wanted them to see. Ellie and her boss eagerly looked at the stuff the man left, but at one point her heart sank and she walked away. He smiled at her over his shoulder. "Not very convincing, is it." Ellie hesitated because she wanted to believe, then finally replied, "No...not very." "Do you think we could re-create images like these?" he asked. "Regrettably...I think we could do better these," she sighed. Nothing ever came of it and all this time the yearning to create believable spacecraft stayed with Ellie. Quite by accident, after purchasing equipment for her photo-retouching business, she discovered tools that enabled her to begin assembling objects. "God," she mused at one of the first shapes that came up. "This could be the nose of a spaceship." The rest is history. The ship in the "soft sunset" graphic for the story "Slip-stream" is the second one she did. She has done many more since. Each one gets more involved and functional. Ellie's son noticed her doing this one. She had only one question for him. "Does it look like it could fly...Maybe?" "It sure does, Ma...Awesome." That was all she needed to know. As for her personal history, Ellie was born in Europe and came to the US when she was about two. She has had little schooling and is old enough to be a grandmother. She is now doing what she loves. The way things are going, she just might end up being the "Grandma Moses" of space art. That would suit her just fine. Ellie says her soul is, was, and always will be out there in the cosmos and with other life forms. As far as graphic tools are concerned, Ellie uses the standard tools that come with almost every graphics program out there. There is nothing mysterious about them. The rest is technique, and that she can't divulge.... E-mail: ehradsky@suffolk.lib.ny.us Matt Morrow (art for "Alien Utopia", "Trevor's Junkyard", and "The Weapon") received a bachelor's degree in fine arts from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln in 1994. Since then, he has worked as a prepress technician in the printing industry and later moved on to creating editorial illustrations full time for a national computer magazine. Currently, he is pursuing a freelance career and has worked on a variety of projects including package art, advertising, Web icons, and fantasy illustrations. Graphic tools: a Wacom drawing tablet, Painter, Photoshop... and a little imagination. Web site: www.tconl.com/~mz9000/ E-mail: mz9000@tconl.com Robert Sorensen (art for "Paint The Planet Red" and "The Taboos of Tatoos") is currently an expressionist artist, Laureat Winner. Born in New Jersey, Robert spent the last 10 years living in Paris, France, and recently returned to the United States to live in Denver, Colorado, with his Polish-French wife. E-mail: quantexz@aol.com Patrick Stacy (art for "The Barbarian's Tale") hails from Germany, and like many before, started young. His main emphasis in childhood was comics and he soon became an excellent tracer. Never content, the challenge was then to illustrate freehand; now that would be talent. Early influences are still inspirational today, such as the legendary Frazetta, Vallejo, and Parrish. Classical influences were Rubens and Caravaggio. The goal of course is, with any luck, to break into the book cover and magazine markets. As mentioned earlier about never being content, currently in the process of learning to create webpages through HTML and Photoshop. In the process of updating website to include upgrades as well as new illustrations. Winner of the L.Ron Hubbard's Illustrators of the Future contest in 1996 as well as two illustrations within the volume. Web-site: http://members.nbci.com/pstacyart/ E-mail: pld895@aol.com Lee Ward (art for "Planet Circus") is a computer programmer living in Georgia. E-mail: ldraw@aol.com Home Page: http://members.aol.com/ldraw/comic.htm Now you and your friends can be in Planet Magazine, too! Starting next month, we will slap a Planet logo on the very top of the Internet, and voila, everyone with a Web site will be in Planet! Hey, you're welcome! ------------------------------ CH004 Masthead: Information About Planet Magazine Planet Magazine: We're in the top 100% of Web-Zines! Planet Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 4 (the 32nd issue) Home Site: http://www.planetmag.com Mirror Site: http://www.etext.org/Zines/planet Lord Wizard Andrew G. McCann editor@planetmag.com Exalted Ornamentalist Romeo Esparrago public@romedome.com Royal Scrivener Ray Dangel radangel@yahoo.com Bard of the Empire Tom Wagner thomas_p_wagner@hotmail.com What In The World Is Planet Magazine? Planet Magazine is the free, award-winning quarterly Web-zine of short science fiction and fantasy by emerging writers and digital artists, whom we hope to encourage in their pursuit of the perfect tale or illustration. There could be other reasons we're doing this, of course, motivations that are obscure and uncomfortable; instincts linked perhaps to primal, nonreasoning urges regarding power and procreation -- the very same forces, no doubt, that sank the Atlanteans and their alabaster-towered oceanic empire. And the Dark Gods laffed. Planet has been available electronically via the World-Wide Web (see the clickable links at the top of this page) and Tin-Foil-Hat Receptron since January 1, 1994. Total circulation is "thousands 'n' thousands" per issue worldwide. Feel free to download this zine or make a single printout, as long as you don't charge for it or alter it in any way. That would be illegal and "not nice." Submissions are welcomed (see below). Planet does not carry advertising or offer a subscription service, but issues are always available at our Web site, with new ones published every March 1, June 1, September 1, or December 1 (or thereabouts). Letters to the editor are encouraged and are likely to be printed. Guidelines For Submissions Planet accepts original, unpublished short science fiction and fantasy stories and poems, as well as digital art, from anyone famous or unfamous (use the lengths in any recent issue as a guideline). We are open to the experimental but will not publish anything we judge to be porno, gore, or in violation (as far as we are able to tell) of any copyrights (such as stories that use Star Trek, Star Wars, or Babylon 5 characters). Since Planet is free and carries no ads, we can't pay anything except the spirit-sustaining currency of free publicity and life-enhancing good vibes. For full details on submitting stories, poems, or artwork, please visit: http://www.planetmag.com/submit.htm. * E-mail text submissions as plain, unformatted files (either as an e-mail attachment or, if short enough, in the body of the e-mail message) to editor@planetmag.com. One submission at a time, please. Two submissions max. * E-mail illustration submissions separately as e-mail attachments, but Stuff or Zip them first. Alternatively, you could send the URL for an image, and we can go look at it. Images should be 256-color, 16-color, 16-gray, or B&W GIFs or JPEGs only. Send any questions about illustrations to public@romedome.com or editor@planetmag.com. Distribution Sites Planet Magazine is distributed only in Web (HTML) format, which can be read best with any version 3.0 or above Web browser, such as Netscape Navigator, Internet Explorer, Opera, NeoPlanet, iCab, or OmniWeb. Earlier issues of Planet are also available at our Web site in four other electronic formats: text (.txt) for any PC or Mac word-processing program; Acrobat (.pdf), a full-color version for PC or Mac using the free Acrobat Reader); DocMaker, a full-color, self-running file with sounds for Mac only; and Palm (.prc), a text version that requires a Palm PDA and a DOC reader like the freeware CSpotRun. The main place to find Planet is on the Web, either at our home page http://www.planetmag.com or our mirror site http://www.etext.org/Zines/planet. Copyrights & Disclaimers Planet Magazine as a whole, including all text, design, and illustrations, is copyright c 2001 by Andrew G. McCann. However, all individual stories and poems in this magazine are copyright c 2001 by their respective authors or artists, who have granted Planet Magazine the right to use these works for this issue in both electronic form and any resulting print-outs by readers for noncommercial, individual use. All people and events portrayed in this magazine are entirely fictitious and bear no resemblance to actual people or events. This publication, along with every past issue of Planet Magazine, is registered with the Copyright Office of the U.S. Library of Congress. Since our first issue, dated January 1994, Planet Magazine has been freely available via the Internet and has consistently used the names "Planet Magazine", "PlanetZine", "PlanetMag," and "McCann's Planet Magazine" to refer to itself. You may freely distribute this magazine electronically on a noncommercial, nonprofit basis to anyone and print one copy for your personal use, but you may not alter or excerpt Planet in any way without direct, written permission from the publisher, who can be contacted at editor@planetmag.com. Any unauthorized access, reproduction, or transmission of Planet Magazine, in whole or part, is strictly prohibited by U.S. federal law and international copyright law. Planet Magazine is published by Cranberry Street Press, Garden City, N.Y., USA, Andrew G. McCann, publisher. Colophon This issue was created with Adobe GoLive 5.0, Graphic Converter 4.1, Painter 1.02, and Microsoft Word 98 on an iMac DV. Logotype by Romeo A. Esparrago, Jr., using Startling by Dave Bastian, at http://www.davebastian.com/. (Previous logotypes in Arquitectura and Times New Roman). The text is Arial, and in some older issues Helvetica or Geneva. Some of the artwork in this and past issues was designed and created by Romeo A. Esparrago, Jr., using Adobe GoLive 4.0 and ImageStyler. Some illustrations were done in Painter 4. He also uses a Titanium G4 PowerBook, a Wacom ArtZ tablet, and a MicroTek ScanMaker IISP. Please visit the guest artists' Web pages to learn about the tools they used for their illustrations. Note that every issue of Planet is distilled from pure seawater. Planet Magazine ISSN: 1526-1840. ------------------------------ CH005 Alien Utopia by Pat Hartsfield The silence felt deafening. The peoples of Earth were accustomed to the earsplitting detonations of Humanity's space vehicles, whether Mars-bound colony vessels or simple, orbital drones. But the silver orb before them descended silently, as though it were attached to a magician's wire. The craft did not actually land on the grass. It hovered smoothly, two feet above the lawn of the government building, crushing not a single blade. Melvin Amberdink adjusted his tie nervously. He ran his sandpaper-dry tongue across his lips. His breath came in rapid, irregular pants. He tried to force himself to inhale deeply, fearing that he might black out from lack of oxygen. Mentally, he went over his speech again and again. Each sentence, each word needed to be perfect as he prepared for his second meeting with The Alien. * * * * * Prior to The Alien's first contact with Humanity, the peoples of Earth had already been gazing toward the stars for many years, hoping that their cosmic neighbors might one day stop by for tea. By the year 2020, the leaders of the planet had realized that any highly evolved aliens probably would not commune with a people bound in perpetual chaos. So the leaders of the various nations called for a global summit meeting. Envisioning the moment of first contact, the leaders of Earth agreed to model their society after what they concluded the morally advanced aliens must value. In the decades that followed, they sent messages into space, crying out for the advanced beings of the galaxy to come and find them worthy. In hopes of achieving the highest alien standards, they wrote what was titled the "Canon of the Universe." This set of doctrines for personal and planetary conduct helped guide them in building a better world. With passion and patience, they shaped a society that, compared to any human society in history, could only be likened to heaven. Wealth became measured in the ability to pay for pleasure, since the necessities of life were available to those in even the poorest countries. All deadly diseases had been conquered, and war was only found in stories. Ball fields replaced battlefields, and weapons factories built only toys. Once this utopia had reached its highest point yet, the silver ship appeared. It broadcast messages in English, Spanish, Hindi, Russian, and Mandarin, requesting contact with Earth's ambassador to other races. Melvin Amberdink of Roswell, New Mexico, was chosen, since he was the Chairman for the United Nations Alien Contact Task Force. He and the people of Earth were elated. At last, the aliens had come. During that first contact, Melvin had expressed the passionate desire of the people of Earth: "We wish to be accepted by you. What must we do?" The black, smooth-skinned Alien seemed to smile from the gaping hole that appeared to serve as its mouth. It declared, "You must cease all use of cold fusion for power and magnetic propulsion for transportation. They create...difficulties." Melvin stood openmouthed for a moment. "But that would wreak havoc throughout our world. All of our off-world colonies would be in peril. People would die. Cold fusion is necessary. If we are to follow your orders, we need more instructions. Perhaps a new technology to replace what we must relinquish." The Alien replied, "If you wish to prove yourself worthy, you must follow my instructions implicitly. Then I will provide the technology that you will need." Humanity dutifully obeyed. * * * * * Melvin swallowed as he retraced the words he would report to The Alien, fearful that the Earth might be rejected as unworthy. With the loss of cheap, abundant energy, the once peaceful planet had begun to fight again. Weapons covered with dust were cleaned and serviced. Ancient, ethnic enemies set aside their peace agreements. New lines of war were drawn over the capped oil fields. Melvin worried that The Alien would be angry and reject his primitive people. Melvin walked up the ramp, which had extruded itself from a newly formed hole in the wall of the ship. The Alien awaited him inside. Melvin hung his head, unable to face The Alien as he related the events of the last four months. In such a short time, Humanity had fallen into a state of brutality. The Alien appeared to smile as he listened. "This is all well," he declared. "You mean you are not displeased?" Melvin asked, relieved. The Alien answered, "On the contrary, I am very pleased." Melvin brightened. "Then you can tell us what we need to do to restore peace to Earth." "I cannot," The Alien admitted. Melvin shook his head, confused. "Then why did you have us do all these things? Why would an ambassador of peace put us through such anguish?" The Alien seemed to chuckle from his gaping mouth as he answered. "You are mistaken. I am not an ambassador of peace. I am an arms dealer." Story copyright 2001 by Pat Hartsfield Crosspointyouth@juno.com ------------------------------ CH006 A Panther Inside by Mike Velichansky William Thir wrote in his journal, late at night, while the glow of the computer screen -- the only light in the room -- made his pale face seem translucent and sickly. He wrote, for the first time in more than a week: I've figured it out! I was up late reading, and that's when I saw it. Look. Look! The biographies at the back. Written by NEIL GAIMAN, lives in America, four. Colorist, ROBBIE BUSCH, one. Illustrator, STEVE PARKHOUSE, two. Lettering, TODD KLEIN, many many. There are more, more, more, more. No time to look now, have to write it down. Because I've figured it out! My vision is getting kind of blurry; it's getting a bit hard to read now. I can still write though, I know where the keys are, I don't usually make mistakes. Why can't I write? My damn cat is yelling outside. "No food for you, bitch!" William turned and yelled. He blinked a few times -- the screen was hard to read. Meow. He wrote: I don't know why she won't help me anymore, I mean, it's really not fair, is it. I can't let her in now, though, because I've figured it out and I don't know what they'll do. See? The exception makes the rule. They have cats, meow, little furry mammals, domesticated carnivore, Felis domestica, that's what the Big Book says. Webster knows too, I think. The exceptions make the rule. They don't all have cats -- but look, look: so many of them do. Yes, yes, Ellison hates cats, hates the little bastards. (They're so soft...) But I hate them too! Why can't I write? She won't help me anymore! Wouldn't you hate it if you found out that you were nothing but a translator -- that your dreams aren't your dreams, but those of the soft furry ones? Maybe that is good though. Some of my dreams scare me... Do they hate us? No, no, they love us, too. Sometimes cold, sometimes warm... Or maybe the translators ruin the message. I still miss them, though, even though they are scary now and then... (The dreams, not the cats.) William stood up and sat down again. He blinked. "My legs are weak," he said to the computer, explaining himself. He stood up again and walked slowly to the kitchen. He drained something dark and fizzy and CAFFEINATED -- woohoo! -- and then splashed some cold water over his face. He walked back to his room -- it looked eerie with only the computer on. Still hard to read the screen. He rubbed his eyes, and wrote: She's left. I can't hear her calling anymore. I'm going to follow her. But first, I'll tell you what I think, because I don't know what will happen to me when I go to them. The stories -- they come from the cats. They're everywhere, slinking around, dark, sleek, fast, furry shadows at night. Like the stories themselves. Some of the stories -- the shadows of the big cat that is in the heart of each little cat -- scare me. I've read them, and they scare me then, too, but it's also good. Maybe I've had some of those, too... I've never written them. Is there a panther inside my cat? (My cat? Everybody knows the cat walks by itself.) It's hard to translate what they send, and now I'm tired, because she hasn't sent anything more... I drank some soda -- maybe I'll wake up a bit. It's no fun being awake, but I'm going to follow her, and maybe they won't see me. I'm going to go now. William stood up again. He opened the door and peeked out. It was dark... There were dim lights in the distance. The streetlights created small puddles of luminescence on the asphalt, which kept his eyes from adjusting to the darkness outside. "Kitty?" he said. He saw, barely, orange movement. Back behind the house, over the fence, into the wood. William stepped out of his house and shut the door. The cold air helped him wake up as it brushed over his chest and legs. He shivered and his vision went WEIRD. But then it was OK. "I'm just tired," he said, and wished he could write something. Instead, he walked over the grass, ducking, trying to be careful. The grass was wet and cold, and then his bare feet became wet and cold, and dirty too. A rock cut into his foot, waking William up suddenly. Jump over the fence -- thud -- it hurts without sneakers to absorb the shock. Oh well, nothing to it. Which way? That way! She doesn't move so fast anymore, she's is old and fat now, sleeps most of the day. Walking through the woods sucked -- twigs everywhere. But it only took a minute, and then the woods ended and William was a few hundred feet behind the shopping mall. Urban desert. For some reason, tons of cement had been poured over the ground. Here and there, small green plants grew from cracks -- they looked small and weak, but they were, in fact, CHAMPIONS, the strongest and most determined of all of the little plants that had been smothered underneath the cement. Up ahead, they were gathering. Can they hear me? (And can the plants hear me too, William thought.) William crawled forward on hands and knees, trying to stay low. Where had they come from? Household cats, stray cats, hunter cats that fed off the mall's Rodentia. They seemed strange in the moon's pale light. What were they doing? They were sitting there, or laying there. Together, on top of a cement dune, not making a sound, not doing anything. Just... sitting. Looking? Yes. William could see their bright eyes, green, yellow. He wrote: They're not human eyes, you know. Yes, you know that, but they're not -- who knows what they're thinking behind those alien eyes. Are they dreaming for us, dreaming of blood, steel, love-machines, birth, death, torture, madness and hate, fear, hope, joy, desire and despair... Meow. He also wrote: Imagination: what else is left for the soft, furry, cute, pretty, loving, sleek, fast, hateful, vicious, small hunters now, with only a very few big hunters left? Meow. William woke up. He'd been dreaming that he was writing something, but now he couldn't remember. Meow. William looked down, and saw his cat next to him. He sat down, knees to chest. "Hello kitty," he said sadly. Meow. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here, I know." The cat, visibly orange even in the darkness, rubbed her side against his leg, and then swiped at his toe as an afterthought. "Ow," William said. He was so tired, the pain didn't feel right. "Kitty, don't scratch." Meow. He got up and walked back to his house. The cat followed him for a while, darting in between his legs, then sat down on it's haunches, head up, proud. Later, it would come back inside and moan pitiably, begging for some treats. (She didn't get any, though, because of the future.) "Why won't you give me any more ideas?" he asked. Meow. Inside, William wrote: Muses. And, of course, they were always fickle... William wanted to sleep. Things were getting WEIRD -- and he preferred that on paper. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, trying to sleep. The light of the screen bothered him, but he didn't want to open his eyes, because if he did, he might miss the chance to fall asleep. "William, William, you silly man," a soft feminine voice said. (Soft and cold.) William opened his eyes and turned in his chair. A woman stood three feet away. She seemed to shimmer, and he couldn't make out her face properly. His eyes were rebelling against him! Mutiny! He shook his head, trying to get his brain in order. He still couldn't see very well. "Hello?" he said, and thought that he was dreaming, which really wasn't fair, because he was still tired. The woman gave a strange, throaty sigh. "You should sleep William, the things you are writing in your journal are like the ravings of a madman. And you are only a little mad yet." "I can't sleep. I need to write something." "You've already written many things." "My journal doesn't help. Only the stories help. Then I can sleep." "So write," she said, and lifted her arm, pointing to the screen. "I can't," William sobbed, "they won't give me ideas anymore!" "Who, William?" "The cats!" The woman laughed. "You think the cats are the source of your strange waking dreams?" William felt a little foolish. "It made sense... Sort of..." "You are tired William. And you are wrong. They are what they are, little carnivores, cold and beautiful." "Then... why do so many dreamers have them?" "Because, William," the woman said, and kneeled down in front of him. He thought he could make out her face, but it still seemed foggy. "Because you are weird, William, and your peers are weird. Strange humans, living with their head in the clouds, building cloud castles -- little children mimicking their father, with almost as much glee, with almost as much beauty and horror." "And the cats," she went on, "they are weird too. You are attracted to them because in some small way they mirror your own hearts." "Were do the stories come from?" William asked, his head spinning. "The same place you come from, and the same place you go to when you die... They come from you." The woman leaned forward and kissed William. Her lips were cool as ice, but he felt a warmth spread over his body. William shivered. He turned around, cleared his screen, and began to write -- there were so many stories, too many! Never enough life to write them all. He pounded away on the keys, forgetting the woman, who was already gone, and the cats, who were still sitting on the cement dune. She walked through the fence. Her motions were slow, graceful, and did not hint at any power -- they merely stated the fact. She was a beautiful woman, entering the woods. "Why am I here?" she wondered, and laughed at herself, for it was the same thing the humans asked. She was a woman with a strong, lithe body, and the head of a large cat. "I am here because they are here. They make me, and I make them make me." She remember when they had worshipped her, long ago, in a hot place. She was a panther, black, deadly, a vision of beauty and death in one. In a different place, almost new, where the sun was not as cruel and the water not as precious, she was but a minor thing, to the side -- she rarely had any part in the games of the others. Except for few who had time now to dream in their waking hours. Then she was but a minor thing in the grand scheme, to the side of the games of the others, a daughter with nine faces -- in a different place, were the sun wasn't as cruel and water not as precious. The panther walked out onto the cement dunes, translucent in the moonlight. They still worshipped her now, everywhere, in their own strange human way, and that was all right. She would not vanish like the old Gods, who were themselves children. The panther sat down amidst the house cats. No sounds, no motions made. They were nothing special, really, no different than the other creatures. But they were strange and cold and beautiful, and mirrored her heart, a little. There had been one, in a new place, who had thought of her some. Let these tiny gods play, she thought, like the small hunters play. She had to exist because she did, the same as everything else. And that was fine. Before the sun came up, the cats -- with slow, lazy motions -- walked back to their private places. Still no sound was made. The panther was gone, but all the cats knew it had been there, and did not question this, because cats, still the hunters, do not question their senses. At 6:23 a.m., William Thir went to sleep, exhausted, having written the first story in over a week. Story copyright 2001 by Mike Velichansky kroosk@icqmail.com Author's Note: The names listed at the beginning are from the biographies at the back of "The Sandman, vol. 2: The Doll's House" (DC Comics, 1995). Malcolm Jones III, Dave McKean, Chris Bachalo, and Michael Zulli also worked on it, but were not named because they did not mention ownership of (or the sharing of quarters with) Felis domestica, and I cooked the evidence. ------------------------------ CH007 Duel With A Devil by Sean K. Twyford A spot of light appeared on the scruffy rug, which covered the bare rock of the cave floor. Jacsson swivelled the torch around the chamber: There was no one there, but he'd found what he was after. He spoke quietly into the wrist com. "There's been something in here, all right. I'm going on. Get back to you, Yan." "OK, boss, but watch your back. You know what those sneaky little bastards are capable of." Jacsson smiled to himself. Yan hated Cupits, whilst he just disliked them. It wasn't surprising; they were difficult for regular people to understand. Their looks, barely human. Their culture, language and that goddamned stupid religion set them apart. They were an alien minority, belligerent, non-conformist and untrustworthy. "Right. Got you. You know where I am. My tracers working, yes?" "Yessir. Just take care, that's all." "OK, Yan. Out." Jacsson took a right fork, ducked slightly to clear the ceiling of the chamber and followed his nose. You didn't need to be a Sniffer Beast to track a Cupit. Their pheromone-rich body odour was both putrid and unique. Sergeant Jacsson knew the fugitive was near. Slowly, he clipped the torch on to a shoulder bracket and removed the safety on his firearm. He edged forward, simultaneously scanning the illuminated dial of the infra-red wrist recorder whilst peering along the torch's beam. Crystals on the cave walls reflected light like a galaxy of stars, false images that confused his vision. There was a movement. He didn't see anything, just sensed a presence. The hackles on the back of his neck rose like a dog's. He strained his eyes against the gloom. More movement. A scream, like none he'd heard before. He fired. Once. Twice. Then there was silence. He waited. Still there was silence. He advanced. Shone the torch at where the movement had been. The Cupit was dead all right, very dead, only not by his hand. Couldn't be. Too much of a mess. "Jesus H. Christ." Jacsson averted his eyes. He took several deep breaths to regain his composure, then reaffixed his eyes to the loose assemblage of body parts that had been a Cupit. He spoke into the wrist com, his voice shaking unusually. "Yan, we have a problem." "Fire away, boss. What is it?" "I found the Cupit alright, or what's left of him. He's been killed. Slaughtered. Dismembered. Christ knows. By somebody or something unknown. I've got a hunch that Immigration Officer's death wasn't down to the Cupit. No sir. I figure this guy's just an illegal. Probably waiting falsified ID PIN. You know the form." "Defa, defa..." A high-pitched scream from close by reverberated around the chamber. Jacsson fumbled with his weapon, but before he could release the safety a tiny figure shot out of the dark and attached itself to his left thigh. "Jees ..." "Defa! Defa!" More screams from the diminutive thing cut short his expletive. Then he relaxed, for he could now make out what the thing was. A Cupit, very small. Merely a youngster. A fugitive. Terrified. "Steady kid. Steady. It's OK." The child calmed a little, deflecting its huge, green eyes in Jacsson's direction. Jacsson spoke to Yan. "I have a kid. A young Cupit. I'll need a medic down here to collect him. Incidentally, you got access to your translator? I ain't got mine with me." "Yeah. What do you want to know?" "Defa. A Cupit word. What does it mean?" There was a few seconds pause. Then Yan, sounding bemused, spoke. "Got it. According to my info, it means the Devil or Demon, something like that." "Thanks, I can see why. Where are the rest of the team?" "In the marshes mostly. Oh, except Thompsson and Letchkov. According to their sensors, they're in tunnels each side of you. There's a chamber that intersects all three. You could rendezvous there. Do you want me to set it up?" "Yeah, we'll form a tri-pack and hunt this whatever-it-is ..." "Devil?" "Yeah, whatever. We'll hunt it down." "OK, boss. The tunnel's about one hundred metres directly in front of you. Meet at the intersection, yes?" "Yeah. Fifteen minutes. That'll allow time to get the kid out." "Got that, boss. Out." The young Cupit clung desperately to Jacsson, rambling incoherently. The Sergeant wasn't an expert in variant humanoid physiology, but didn't need to be to see that the kid was traumatised. He put an arm around the shivering little creature, tried to give comfort, though there was little else he could do. For the first time, he felt sorry for a Cupit. Maybe they were getting a raw deal. Jacsson heard footsteps from behind. He swivelled around, nervously brandishing his gun. The kid mumbled pathetically, clung tighter still, making it impossible for Jacsson to move a step. Fortunately he didn't have to. He expelled a sigh of relief. The murder, this place, this thing -- whatever it was -- was getting to him. A flicker of light advanced towards him. It got bigger, and within seconds the haggard features of Doc Mason hovered into view. "Jacko. What you got me?" "Just the kid. An orphan now, I expect. An adult Cupit's been slain here. I reckon this little fellow's his son. Poor little sod's petrified. He's seen what's happened to his Pa, and it sure ain't pretty." The Doc grimaced, shook his head. "Poor kid. I'll try out my Cupit. It ain't great but..." He smiled at the demure figure still hugging like a limpet to Jacsson's thigh. The youngster's eyes followed him jumpily as he squatted down to the kid's eye level. He evidently spoke the language pretty well. Jacsson could feel the effects on the child. The child's spidery arms lessened their hold, and the kid's big, trusting eyes held Mason's. The Doc tentatively outstretched a hand and the youngster slowly crept forward, then extended his long three-fingered hand... "Aieeee... Zap... Zap..." A blood-curdling scream and gunshots echoed from in front. The kid turned hysterical. "Defa! Defa!" He cried. Doc held him securely, whispered reassurance. Jacsson spun around to face the noise. Gun raised, he sprinted towards the commotion. He screamed back at Mason. "Doc, take the kid! We'll deal with it!" Doc needed no encouragement. He'd already started back with the youngster's hand firmly in his. "Aieee..." Another scream. This time nearer. Jacsson's spine prickled and sweat trickled into his dark eyes. The temperature was high. Thermal updrafts from Laran's subterranean volcanic flows. Jacsson recalled the physical makeup of the planet. It had been his home for some years but it still held surprises. "Aieee..." That sound again. Human? Animal? He couldn't decide. Despite the uncertainty, he grinned to himself. A handsome, white, even-toothed smile. The strange sound reminded him vaguely of a Bloodhound owned by his ex. If only... Making light of a dire situation was something he was particularly good at. It was a necessary quality cultivated by Laran's elite Police Armed Assault Group members. He glimpsed at his wrist recorder. Something registered on it. Maybe fifty metres ahead. He followed the torch beam, but the sulphurous fumes fogged his view. The register was faint. A small creature. No, that couldn't be. The Cupit had been dismembered by something somewhat larger than a rat? He smiled again to himself, hoping he was wrong; maybe it was a rat. Laran had rats, lots of them, yet another present courtesy of Earth. There was a slithering noise ahead. Something large. Not a rat. The signal moved correspondingly on his W.R. Must have a low I.R. signature. Cold-blooded. The peculiar rasping noise, like someone dragging something heavy, moved away from him and rapidly disappeared, as did the W.R. reading. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then his heart stopped for a second. He could make out the shape of a prostrate figure. A human outline... Officers of Jackson's standing had seen it all. Death, massacres, even of friends and colleagues. Thompson's body quivered and convulsed in a deepening pool of crimson. Jacsson's torch slowly traced the long torso of his erstwhile friend, his size-thirteen regulation boots. Long legs. Thompson was a big man. The muscled thorax, powerful shoulders then... Then nothing! "My God." Muttered Jackson. He shouted into the wrist com. "Yan! What's Letchkov's WC Number. Quick!" "What's the problem..." Yan began. "The number. Now!" Yan didn't object. It was against protocol, maybe, but you just didn't argue with the Sarge. "OK, OK. It's 48709." Jacsson input the number into his wrist com. "Letchkov!" "Yes, sir. What's going on?" "Get the hell out of there. Your wrist com, man. Read it!" "Yeah, I got a reading. It's something small, though. Nothing to worry about... Shit... Fuck... Aah..." Jacsson sprinted towards Letchkov's position, but he knew it was too late. He was angry. Fuming. Two of his men slain. His friends. His responsibility. This thing, this creature, whatever-it-was, he was going to kill it. He had to. For Thompson, Letchkov and that kid, with the fear in his eyes. * * * * * The grotesque shape he saw, only fleetingly, defied description. Of no definitive shape, it half-slithered, half-ran. A long body, vaguely maggot-like, was interrupted at intervals by human, Cupit and a variety of other animal limbs. A foul parody of Thompson's head, seemingly attached the wrong way round peered back at him like some obscene gargoyle. Jacsson fired. The Thompson protuberance exploded into a filthy ulcerated sore. The thing emitted a squeal like that of a thousand rats and squirmed away from him. Jacsson nodded to himself. "Yeah. You can be hurt. You ugly son of a bitch." Then shock took him. He quavered uncontrollably. His eyes smarted with sweat and the fumes. All his instincts told him to run. But he couldn't, wouldn't. He fought the convulsions, the primordial fear, but it wasn't easy. He needed help. He fumbled with the zip on the thigh of his tunic and extracted a tablet. He popped the green anti-shock sedative under his tongue and counted as the tablet dissolved and dissipated throughout his system. It took ten seconds, then a surge of relief coursed through his veins. He could cope now. His wrist com flashed. "Sarge. You OK?" It was Yan. "Yeah. I'm OK. Thompson and Letchkov aren't though." "Christ. What's happening in there?" "There's this thing. God knows what it is. But it's goddamn lethal. I need help urgently." "Sarge, I'm pulling out all the stops here, but there ain't gonna be any help for at least an hour." "Sweet Jesus. That's too long. This thing will have had me for breakfast by then." "Describe it, Sarge. I've a staff ecologist on tap. You know Jen Arnold. I'm patching her through..." A cultured female voice took over. "Hello, Sergeant Jacsson. Can you please describe this animal to me?" "It's awful. I only saw it for a second or two, but here goes. It's basically shaped like an oversized grub. Dull grey in colour, though it has the ability to change somehow. It must be ten metres long, and it's copying the shapes of body parts from victims. I hit it full on with my assault laser. Hurt it, but not much. I reckon Thompson hit it too. It must be injured, but I reckon it's going to take some juice before it goes down." "Sergeant, what you are describing sounds like a Defa..." "Defa, the Devil. That's what that young Cupit called it." "Yes, Sergeant, they were of major significance to the Cupit peoples. They used to pray to them, apparently. They are partial metamorphants. That means they can mimic shape to a limited extent. They're practically extinct now, but I never heard of one exceeding three metres..." The calm scientific way in which she spoke irritated Jacsson. "Look, you calling me a liar? This thing's at least ten metres, and it changes shape before your eyes..." "Apologies, Sergeant, but I'm only recounting what I know. Wait a second. I think I might have the answer. I have heard stories that Laran, in its war with Trelaar 4, before the Earth settlement, experimented on the Defa. They were trying by genetic means to provide the perfect spy. A simulant. A programmed creature that could genetically replicate its enemies perfectly, and infiltrate. Positively evil. The project was abandoned during the cease-fire. Apparently the biodegenerate Defa became uncontrollable. Or so the stories say." "Christ, I'm up against some goddamn mutant. Can it be stopped?" "Most likely, but you'll need a lot of fire power. Maybe a tactical battlefield laser would suffice." "Thank you, Ms. Arnold. Please pass me to Yan." Yan's anxious voice interrupted. "Sarge, I don't know how to say this, but it gets worse. The shaft you're in. It's not just a cave. It's part of the city's catacombs. One of the ancient wonders." "Yeah. I get the picture. Massive tourist site, visited by thousands every day. That thing's been flushed straight at 'em. By me, as well. Great!" "Only you can stop it, Sarge. You can head it off at the pass, as the saying goes." "How?" "Take the next turn left for about a hundred metres, then a sharp right. That shaft takes you back to the catacombs, just in front of the gates near the Atribium. Hurry. There's enough time, but maybe only enough. You must get in front of the thing. I'm getting help, but it isn't going to be in time." Jacsson threw down an adrenaline tab and ran, at a rapid but sustainable pace. He broke back into the main passage a little more than a stone's throw from the Atribium gates. He advanced slowly, glimpsing at his wrist recorder. There was no reading. None whatsoever. He peered into the dark. There was a little light, but not much. His torch beam showed nothing. He heard nothing. He flashed Yan. "I'm in front of the beast. Unless of course it's turned back..." "Right, Sarge. Something I have to warn you about." Jacsson interrupted. "I hear something! Got to go!" He edged forward, towards the noise. The ground disappeared beneath him. "Jesus..." he screamed. Instinctively, he spread his arms and legs, starfish fashion. He was in luck. His right hand connected and latched on to an overhang of solidified magma. He held on in desperation, his legs dangling in the furnace blast of super-heated air. He dangled precariously for a few seconds. Seconds that seemed a lifetime to him. Then his left hand found purchase, and he wriggled away from the abyss. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He skipped about, performing an impromptu jig. His boots, despite being all-terrain insulated, were red hot and his garments were singed. The climatic temperature regulator in his uniform kicked in with vengeance. He suddenly felt cooler; he took deep breaths, tried to steady himself. Then he heard the movement from down the shaft. He grabbed for the assurance of his weapon, but it wasn't there. "Jesus H. Christ! I lost it..." His torch beam stabbed deeply into the sable darkness. At the extreme range of its luminance there was a slight movement. An almost innocuous movement. His wrist recorder blipped ominously. Then the noise. A cry, a scream, he couldn't say which. A noise so alien, yet nearly human, nearly Cupit. The movement drew a little closer. The thing was there in the dark waiting for him, stalking him. He was the prey. "Oh my God," he gasped. He reached for the extendable knife. Not a weapon he'd ever used or indeed wanted to use. An anachronism. A residual left over from millennia of military history. He forced the catch back and the blade extended itself to form a short stabbing or hacking weapon. Better than nothing, but not by much. The noise again. He shook. Lost control. Pissed himself. The acrid smell of the urine evaporating from his still-hot trousers nearly made him retch. He reached into the medical pouch, threw down another anti-shock. His nerves steadied, and he prepared to meet his fate. Did he have any chance? The pit. A volcanic shaft, some form of heated blowhole off the tourist path. If he could draw the thing in to the pit. Yes, that was it. Send the devil back to where it belonged! There was a clang behind. Surely not! It couldn't be! He turned slowly, half expecting the Defa to reappear like magic behind him. A light crept towards him and an amplified voice, a human voice, hailed him. "Hey buddy, where did you come from? Jacsson ran to the man. Glad of his presence. "Who are you?" "Jelore's the name. Security..." "Listen, there isn't much time. I'm Sergeant Jacsson of PAAG. There's a psychopathic beast in here. I have to stop it." "You puttin' me on, mister." Then he saw the desperation on the cop's face. "No, you aren't. Can I help?" "Yeah. Get help. Oh, and a searchlight. Shine it in here. Let's see what we're up against. Mustn't let the creature into the open catacombs and keep them folks" -- he pointed at the gawking tourists-- "away. Can you evacuate?" "No mister. Can't do. No authority. Anyway, it would take hours." "All right, I understand. You're armed?" "Yeah, only a stun pistol though." "Give it me. It's better than what I have." Jelore hesitated, then reluctantly passed the ridiculous little weapon over. "OK, Sergeant. I'll get the other guys. We'll do what we can." "Thanks, Jelore." Jacsson ran back. He could see the creature's outline in the light of his torch. Fortunately, the creature took its time. It could move fast, Jacsson knew, but now it scraped its way forward cautiously. Maybe it sensed danger, knew of the blowhole. Was it injured? Jacsson hoped so, but he sensed the creature was studying him, assessing his offensive capability. Perhaps some of the sentience or knowledge of its victims had been absorbed too. Jacsson stopped thinking morbid thoughts. To convince himself that the creature could be invulnerable wasn't helping. He moved forward, skirted the pit on the narrowest of ledges and faced the Defa, which was now more visible and even more repulsive. Jacsson felt ill. The simulant crawled like a snake assisted by limbs, which were both human and Cupit. A carbuncle on its head metamorphosed into features, which were a sick caricature of both Thompson and Letchkov. He took aim and fired the stun pistol three times. The creature issued a surreal near-human cry, like laughter, mocking. Chunk... Behind him the noise of machinery. Then the mutant was illuminated like a vile sculpture. It reeled backwards. Jacsson took heart. He kept firing and backed up towards the pit. Tendrils, like living plant roots, crept towards him. A vine found his ankle and yanked at him with fantastic strength. He went down, and the mutant wound him in like a fish on a line. Jacsson stared into the beast's reptilian maw, now graphically illuminated by the halogen from the gate. Zap... Zap... The security men fired over his prostate body. Their stun weapons had little effect, though the creature was distracted. Jacsson drew the knife. In desperation, he lashed at the tendril. His foot was only a stride away from those terrible jaws. Then the sinew was cut; the living cord still writhed around his leg like an eel. He wrenched it free and ran like a maniac. He nearly fell into the pit but somehow managed to vault around the perimeter, the up-blast scorching a reminder in his uniform. On the other side of the blowhole he turned to face the beast. Make his last stand. The creature flowed after him, its greed overcoming logic. Tendrils reached out. Then the creature tipped forward. Its heavy forepart starting to carry it downwards. It shrieked its rodent-like warning but held on, refusing to fall further into the pit. Vines scrambled, gaining hold. It slipped no more. Tendrils then gripped the overhang, and slowly but surely the creature raised itself towards the lip. It squealed, a high-pitched bat noise. Was it in pain? Did it know pain? Perhaps it was feeling triumphal. Quickly, Jacsson began wielding the knife time after time, severing the tendrils. The creature screeched its defiance and tried to keep its grip, but it slipped inevitably down into the heat. Back to hell. Jacsson last saw that protrusion which was a head, with Thompson's face. The face smiled at him. Story copyright 2001 by Sean K. Twyford sseankt@aol.com ------------------------------ CH008 Family Ties by E.S. Strout The strongest source of cosmic x-ray and gamma radiation from the center of the Milky Way Galaxy is the environs of the constellation Sagittarius. Observations suggest that the galactic nucleus contains collapsed neutron stars, hydrogen gas and dark matter in the form of a medium sized black hole. It has a mass equivalent of about one million Suns. This anomaly has been designated Sagittarius-A. - Encyclopedia Britannica Separation was traumatic. The progenitor clung with ferocity to its unruly offspring, but the centrifugal forces were too great. A troubled neighborhood watched their estrangement throes with trepidation. Many of the distressed observers sustained severe and sometimes terminal absorption as the vengeful brat terrorized the environs before moving on. The parent grieved for its contrary offspring . . . * * * * * "This is very strange," remarked Jennifer Lynn Chen, Stanford University astrophysics graduate student, as she viewed a Hubble telescope transmission on one of JPL's monitors. "The accretion disk around the galactic core has a bite out of it. Like it's not a ring shape any more." Her eyes squinted in disbelief. "Weird-looking thing. Take a look, Greg." Astrophysicist Gregory James Metcalf slid rimless glasses in place from their perch on his forehead and viewed the screen with a dubious eyeball. "You're sure this is not a glitch, Jen? Remember, JPL is having start-up problems with their new tachyon image-enhancement system for Hubble." She munched a bite of chocolate doughnut and slurped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. "No glitch. We've got real-time images since yesterday. JPL says their diagnostics are green board." She tapped another key. A second image popped to the screen. "This is from twenty hours ago." A faint, hazy band circled the anomaly lurking at the center of the Milky Way galaxy. "A complete ring. See what I mean?" "So what do you think Sagittarius-A is up to, Jen?" "Beats me," she said around a mouthful of doughnut. "This happened fast. Nothing like it in the textbooks." Metcalf scratched his newly hatched beard, then dug in his lab coat pocket for two Mylanta tablets, which he swallowed whole with a swig of tepid coffee. He clicked to a close-up of the current image. "Damn. Local star systems outside the gap are gone too. You show this to anyone else?" Chen tugged at her dark ponytail. "Just you, Greg. Wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining it." "I'm gonna ask Stan Orbovich from Cal Tech over to have a look. He's a major pain in the ass, but brilliant. He's been tracking down black holes for years, wrote a bunch of tech journal articles. In the meantime I'll talk to the guys at MIT and Harvard, see what they have." Jennifer smiled. "Professor Orbovich. Yeah, I remember him. Eccentric as hell. I caught his lecture on neutron stars last year. He hit on me." * * * * * Stanley James Orbovich, Ph.D., brushed frizzy, uncombed hair from his forehead and tapped a tobacco-yellowed fingertip on the computer display. "Geez, boys and girls. Ol' Sagittarius-A is busy as a beaver out there. That's some diastasis." "Thought you might have some ideas, Stan," Dr. Metcalf said. "I do indeed, Greg. Any of the ivory-tower types picking up on this?" "I spoke to the guys at Harvard and MIT yesterday," Dr. Metcalf said. "They said I was full of shit. In more precise scientific terms than that, though," he huffed. Dr. Orbovich lit up a Marlboro, bounced a smoke ring off the CRT screen. "Bunch of amateurs, think they're state of the art. Dummies aren't even on line with that Hubble tachyon gizmo yet. They wouldn't know a black hole if one walked up and bit 'em on the ass." "Let me show you guys something." He handed Jennifer a hardcopy. "It ain't much, but more than those pot-head Ivy League geeks have." Chen read, a scowl of puzzlement pursing her lips. "Earth's gravitational pull at 0.998 of standard. Which means what?" "Well, we know that Sagittarius-A is flexing some muscle. How come? Something has gobbled up a chunk of accretion disk and a bunch more star systems in record time. A celestial mystery. Where's Perry Mason when you need him?" Chen stopped him with an upraised hand. Her voice dripped skepticism. "So? Tell us something we don't know, Stan." "Sag-A could be affecting Earth's gravitational pull, my love." "Bullshit, Stan. Two thousandths off standard," Dr. Metcalf said. "That's well inside established parameters for error. Some kind of electronic glitch, maybe your equipment . . ." "Hmpf. My gravitometers were calibrated just yesterday," Dr. Orbovich said. He inhaled, then blew a stream of tars and carcinogens toward the ceiling. "Want more? Check this out." The Cal Tech astrophysicist rooted in his briefcase and produced a second hardcopy. Graduate student Chen viewed the report with dawning interest. "0.996 of standard? Since when?" "Zero eight twenty-five this morning. Less than four hours ago. Now it's right at the margin of error limit. Wha'dya think now?" "You got a point to make, Stan?" Dr. Metcalf asked, a hint of sarcasm breaking through. Dr. Orbovich rubbed his enlarging bald spot, then grinned. "Damn right I have a point, Greg. You called me, remember? Are you some kind of left-wing Sixties wacko? Straighten up. Get some contacts and lose that excuse for a beard. I'm here to save your ass." Metcalf dipped his chin to hide the angry flush creeping up his neck. "I'll remind you, Stan, we were talking Sagittarius-A," he said. Dr. Orbovich gave him a snaggle-toothed grin. "No shit, Dick Tracy. Good thing you called, Greg old comrade. Wanna hear my theory?" Metcalf rolled his eyes. "Do I have a choice?" "Of course not. Listen up. I believe that some celestial bodies may achieve velocities exceeding the speed of light under certain circumstances. Keep that in mind and consider the possibility that the Sagittarius-A hiatus is the result of a cosmic family dispute." Jennifer found her voice after a few seconds of silence. "Family, Stan?" She chewed on the tip of her frayed ponytail. "Like maybe somebody split from the old homestead?" "A runaway teenager?" Dr. Metcalf added with a derisive snort. "That may be closer to the truth than you imagine, Greg," Dr. Orbovich said between puffs on his cigarette. Chen poked a finger at Orbovich's chest. "You think it's a living entity? That's crazy, Professor." He nudged her hand aside. "I wouldn't discard that idea, love. The universe has been here a bunch of years longer than we have. There are folks right here in California who believe celestial phenomena like black holes are true life forms." She stifled a snicker with the back of a hand. "California. Land of fruits and nuts. And quasi-religious cults." Dr. Orbovich aimed an index finger, cocked a thumb trigger. "Ah, so. The Asian mentality. You Shinto folks worship the Sun Goddess, right?" "Wrong religion, Stan. I'm a Buddhist. Punishment or reward through reincarnation. You must be my punishment." Orbovich held up both hands in a mock defensive gesture. "No offense intended, my dear." Jennifer giggled. "None taken. Life forms, my ass." "And a lovely, tight ass it is. Perhaps I'll see you in another life." Chen laughed out loud. "Not if I see you first, Stan." "I'm crushed, Jennifer." Dr. Orbovich reached to the bottom of his briefcase and surfaced with a dog-eared American Society of Astrophysics journal and handed it to her. "Check this out." She flipped pages. "January 2005? This is a year old, Stan. What am I looking for?" "Page one-oh-five, love. The reprint of a Nature article from 1998. On the possibility of millions of undetected black holes roaming the cosmos. Many of 'em split from known ones. Outcasts?" Jennifer read, her lips contorted in doubt. "Hmm. Spun off from known anomalies? And got lost?" "Hell of a thing to splatter on the windshield of your spacecraft," Dr. Orbovich observed with a wry grin. "I'll bet we've got a renegade black hole that defected from Big Daddy and chewed a chunk out of the accretion disk on its way out. Now little Junior is cruising around our galaxy faster than light, undetected. Gobbling up planets, whole solar systems like they were M&M's with peanut centers." Chen gnawed a fingernail, spat it on the tile deck. "Little Junior? How little?" Dr. Orbovich scratched his chin. "Oh, maybe a couple thousand light minutes across. It could fit inside Jupiter's orbit." Her eyes widened in dismay. "Quit it, Stan. You're starting to scare me. Those gravitometer readings . . ." "I'm not worried, Jen. The current data are suggestive, not conclusive. We need more." "What Earth-type symptoms would we look for?" Orbovich raised an eyebrow. "Oh, maybe fat ladies canceling their Jenny Craig programs 'cause they're losing weight while cheating on their diets. Nobody knows for sure, Jen, 'cause it's never been investigated." "Losing weight? Oh, wow." Jennifer rummaged in a trash can and came up with the front page of the Orange County Register. "Look here." Orbovich grinned as he scanned the article. "Yeah. I saw this. USAir Boeing 737 overshot a runway in Las Vegas. United 727 in Minneapolis, Continental 747 in Hong Kong, same problem. All within the last twenty four hours. I checked the local meteorological reports. No adverse weather conditions. Maybe their planes lost a couple of tons on a Jenny Craig diet. Could be coincidence, but maybe we should think a little more about Sag-A Junior and Earth's gravitational pull." "You're nuts, Stan. I'm gonna check Hubble again." Metcalf tapped keystrokes. The accretion disk defect around the galactic core remained. Then his eyelids narrowed in concentration. "There's something odd here. Must be a computer glitch." Jennifer peered over his shoulder. "What, Greg?" "Gee whiz," Dr. Orbovich marveled. His finger traced an irregular area of blackness on one corner of the screen. "Wha'dya s'pose this could be? Any wacko ideas, Greg?" "I'll get Hubble to zero in on it," Dr. Metcalf said. He hit another series of keys. The centered image revealed a stygian black globular object with a starless halo around it and similar dark trail behind. "Unbelievable," Chen muttered. "Let me run another diagnostic." Seconds later the computer beeped. INTERNAL DIAGNOSTICS CHECK COMPLETED, the screen read. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN. She tapped in a new request: IDENTIFY HUBBLE ANOMALY. In an instant the reply appeared. CONFIGURATION CONSISTENT WITH SINGULARITY. X-RAY AND GAMMA RADIATION LEVELS CONFIRM. "Singularity?" Jennifer mopped her brow on a sleeve of her lab coat. "Like the Big Bang?" "Every black hole is a singularity, Jen," Dr. Orbovich said. "A dying neutron star, its mass condensed to zero volume. Adjacent systems sucked through the event horizon by its intense gravitational forces. See if you can get us a distance readout." She tapped more keys, stared at the screen, eyes wide and staring. "Fourteen point sixty-seven light years. And decreasing rapidly." "This is real then," Dr. Orbovich said. "When our little foundling spun itself off it attained speed faster than light. Confirms my theory. And he, she or it is visiting our spiral arm of the galaxy." Jennifer gave an audible gasp. Her dark eyes were wide and staring, her skin chalk white. "Oh, holy shit . . ." Dr. Orbovich shrugged. "The Jenny Craig folks are gonna be pissed. No new customers." An alarm from the radiation monitor vibrated through the lab spaces. Dr. Metcalf stared at the blinking meters, stunned. "What, Greg?" Jennifer asked. His voice was tremulous, unbelieving. "Gamma and x-ray readings approaching max." "Sag-A's kid is knocking at our door," Dr. Orbovich said. "We're gonna be stretched a little thin when we breach its event horizon . . . Oh oh. Just wait a sec here . . ." They turned to stare as the radiation alarms quit. Jennifer tapped the side of the instrument with an index finger, then a fist. The meters did not waver. "Readings show only background gamma and x-radiation now," Jennifer said. "What's happening, Stan?" Dr. Orbovich tapped computer keys. A Hubble image appeared. His eyes widened with amazement. "Good golly Miss Molly. Junior's gone. I sure missed that one." Greg peered over his shoulder. "Sonofabitch . . . It just whipped right on by. Jennifer, check the gravitometers if you would, please?" "0.999 of normal, going to 1.00!" She clasped both hands over her head in a victory salute. "Good-bye, Junior, you little shit. Go chew on somebody else's solar system." "We were pretty lucky," Dr. Orbovich said as he squinted at another Hubble image. He tapped a ballpoint pen on the screen. "Look here. Any guesses, guys?" "We're short a planet," Chen said, her face pale, moist with perspiration. Dr. Orbovich searched in vain for another cigarette, crumpled the empty pack and consigned it to a circular file. "You win the stuffed panda, Jen Chen. Pluto's gone and Neptune's orbit has been tilted a couple of degrees. It could follow Junior soon. Uranus is okay, so far. D'ya like my theory now, folks?" Jennifer slumped in a chair, hands held to her face, dark eyes peering between the fingers. "Our solar system. I feel like somebody's just walked on my grave." "Whad'ya think, Greg?" Orbovich said with a sly wink. "Let's get everything copied on disk. Nobody else knows about this yet," Dr. Metcalf said. He sat at the computer and tapped keys. "I've encrypted it. It's ours. We can publish tomorrow." "Publish or perish, Greg my man. We could be looking at a Nobel Prize," Dr. Orbovich said. "Bud Lite for everybody. I'm buying." * * * * * The duty astrophysics fellow eyeballing the Hubble displays recovered from her sudden shock and punched in a phone number. Dr. Metcalf plugged a finger in the opposite ear to mute the background music of the faculty lounge. "Metcalf. This better be good." He listened for several seconds. "Sagittarius-A, Ms. Exner? You're absolutely sure?" He held the receiver at arm's length as though it were a coiled rattlesnake, his face chalk-white, eyes wide and staring. Dr. Orbovich drowned a cigarette butt in his beer glass and looked over at Greg. "Problem, ol' buddy?" "Phyllis Exner. Hubble watch. Uranus and Saturn are missing," Dr. Metcalf stammered, "Gamma and x-ray readings off scale. The galactic core is . . . " "Let me," Dr. Orbovich said. Metcalf handed him the phone. "Phyllis? Dr. Orbovich. Please repeat. Slowly, dear." He listened for a minute, then turned to Greg and Jennifer. "Yeah. I was starting to feel a little lighter. And not from the beer." Chen grabbed tissues from her purse, blotted her eyes. "Please don't bullshit me, Stan." "Wouldn't think of it Jen." He turned back to the phone. "Course and speed please, love?" Stan nodded to himself. "Okay, Phyllis. Thank you. Say a prayer for us all. Okay?" He pressed the POWER OFF key. Dr. Metcalf held a hand to his mouth to repress a gag reflex. "I thought you said Junior was gone." Dr. Orbovich shrugged. "This ain't Junior, Greg. The wackos were right. Cosmological life forms. Family ties were too great, I guess. Sagittarius-A's come looking for his or her missing offspring. And it's a whole lot bigger than a few light-minutes across. Better grab hold of something, people . . ." Story copyright 2001 by E.S. Strout gino_ss@earthlink.net ------------------------------ CH009 The Flower and The Sentinel by Steve Davison Introduction The three main characters here are Edge, a city-born thief, Cynar, a mature hedge wizard, and Kerg the barbarian, from Thangar. Each believes themselves the leader of the group. Our team of "entrapaneurs" is currently in the reluctant employ of the dark sorcerer Syth Ramez, and have been sent into the southern desert lands to recover the demon sword Talonsbane. After picking up a well-tanned dwarf, Vultor, as their guide, they find themselves deep underground, beneath a ruined city... Grim was the sight that met the tomb robbers at the base of the stair. Coffins lay strewn about, their ghastly contents disgorged in hideous positions, so that the thieves needed to tread carefully, for fear of hearing the unnerving sound of cracking, mummified bones. The low, vaulted crypt that stretched out into the dark was littered by portions of these powdered skeletons as if, during the performance of some ghoulish ballet, their dried bones had abruptly lost any semblance of life and collapsed where they danced. Other corpses of the Rhi-Shalak drooped from rectangular apertures set into the walls, once intended as places of privilege. Now scant evidence of their wealth remained, having been removed long ago, along with any dignity the serpent folk may have had. Despite cautiously picking there way down the lengthy hall, the ashen dust of the dead filled their nostrils, causing them to choke and squint. "Who did such a thing," coughed Vultor. "It looks more like a mass murder than a theft." "Those were my thoughts, also, when first I gazed upon the tomb," said Edge, winding his way through the gruesome display. "Very unprofessional work, no doubt carried out by successful associates of those dusty corpses we found inside the obelisk above. I know of no one else who could have been here." "There is one consolation." Kerg swung his torch in an exploratory arc. "That curse back there isn't worth the stone it's carved in, now." "I hope your right," was all Cynar said as they moved onward. Upon reaching the far end of the crypt, they found the damage to be less Pronounced, and the walls, which were covered in detailed hieroglyphics, surrounded a central, raised plinth on which rested a golden coffin. "Those Khy-Azen looters didn't remove everything of value," jested Edge. "I spotted this from back there before I returned for you." Vultor placed a hand to his mouth in reverence, and moved closer. "The sarcophagus of Jijjaresssh," he mouthed. The entire cask was covered in minute etchings depicting the life of Jijjaresssh, last of the serpentmen emperors. Yet no attention was given to these, as thief, barbarian, and dwarf set about the lid. Leaving the manual work to his companions, Cynar began studying the surrounding hieroglyphics. "I was correct; those caverns back there were created by the star walkers!" declared the wizard. The barbarian was busy trying to find finger holes on the golden box, with which to prise off its lid. "What now...?" he sighed. "These glyphs give the legend of the Cthupar as the Rhi-Shalak knew it. They tell of how they came here, cast out from the realm of the gods, to dwell upon the face of Xorn as mortals. Because they came out from of the dark spaces between the stars, they created extensive caverns wherein they could live away from the sunlight." Cynar allowed a smile to pass his lips. "Knew I was right." Then another part of the graphic held his attention. "And it says here of how these caverns span under all the lands." "Denath-Kul!" gasped the dwarf. Like Kerg, Vultor had stayed his attempts to open the cask and, though unable to read the markings on the wall, moved over to where Cynar stood. "The wizard speaks of Denath-Kul -- the underworld." "Yes, I speak so," admitted Cynar. "Long has Thogarian legend told of the vast realm of underground caverns wherein much magic and treasure was to be found," the dwarf added distantly, his eyes focused upon a childhood legend. "Still, as I said before, how could any humanoid race dig out such a huge place?" Edge had also begun to take an interest. Cynar returned his attention to the hieroglyphics. "Denath-Kul was not dug by the Cthupar but by a race of colossal worm-like creatures they created called the Yithomugat, controlled by Cthuparian magic. Even then, they took over five thousand years to complete the work." "Five millennia!" bellowed the barbarian. "How big is this Denath-Kul place anyway?" "You don't yet grasp my meaning," said the wizard, "the underworld is exactly that, a world of caverns and tunnels. Those other three caverns we saw extending off into the distance back there, will stretch out in all directions as far as you can imagine." "Even unto Pyzor or Norhiem?" joked the skeptical warrior. "Beyond all the lands you know or may have even heard of, barbarian," answered Cynar. "In fact, if these caverns we wander are part of Denath-Kul I believe we could walk under the mighty ocean, Moeth Rythog, and find the continent of Thumeia, reputed to lie on the other side of Xorn." "Less of the metaphysics, Cynar," said Edge soberly. "We have enough trouble believing what we see, never mind your fairy tales." Kerg began forcing his sword edge through the gap between the lid and base of the Sarcophagus. "Aye, we can marvel all we like after the lid's off the box and we're on the surface again." A few heartbeats later, and beads of sweat began to pop on to the barbarian's forehead. Then, giving one more mighty twist, the blade shattered. "Curse the halfling's toy!" Kerg threw the broken weapon into a murky corner before sucking his right forefinger, in an effort to halt the flow of blood from a consequent scratch. Vultor and Edge said nothing but immediately started on the lid with their shorter, more robust daggers. Kerg, sure they were grinning at him, simply shrugged and joined in again. Holding both torches now, Cynar viewed the strenuous efforts of the others as the minutes flew by until, soon, the gold lid lifted. A low hiss was heard as the aeon-old air from within exchanged places with the disturbed tomb ash. Then, after a mighty effort by the three robbers, the top slid off the box, thundering to the fractured tile floor -- throwing up even more dust to engulf the area. Because of this, Cynar led them back down the hall of mummies a short way to allow the dirt to settle. While they stood coughing, Edge ventured to speak through the layers of billowing powder. "The damn dust! It burns my eyes and throat." "Presumably it's just the embalming essences used on the cadavers," said Cynar. "Take a drink of water to ease your throat." "After all this, I hope the bloody sword's in there." The thief peered back up, into the cloud veiled, vault. "For the sake of your friends?" Vultor rubbed his eyes. "That," coughed Edge, "and the fact I hate wasting my skills." The somber barbarian was apparently unaffected by the dust. "It's there," he said with more than a little confidence. "Talonsbane?" the wizard asked between uncontrollable bouts of sneezing. "You've seen it?" "Aye," answered Kerg. "I presume so, unless there is more than one great-sword with an opal-tipped hilt, hereabouts!" "Come on, then." The wizard handed a rapidly fading torch to the dwarf and marched into the receding clouds of dust. * * * * * Cynar gazed into the flame-lit sarcophagus, licking his dry lips. Lying centrally amidst the skeleton, clad in dehydrated skin, rested a mightily forged broadsword with an iridescent, milky-blue opal set into an ivory white hilt. "Is it...?" was all Vultor could say, as they viewed the contents. "Well if not; like I said, it's a big coincidence." Kerg's mouth formed a grimace, when he saw the grisly snake king's mummified remains. Then, concentrating on the prize, he reached in to take the sword. "Stop!" Edge grabbed at the barbarian's hairy forearm and pulled it back. "The hilt; I remember," said Kerg impatiently. "Not by the hilt!" However, Edge kept his hold firm, saying, "Not only that." The thief pointed at the clawed ribcage, which seemed to grip the swords blade. "See the green tinge." The barbarian's torch-shadowed eyes showed the question in his voice. "Aye. That's what graveroot looks like after a century or more." Kerg withdrew his arms sharply. "You must have gone through a hell of an apprenticeship thief." With the skill of some latter-day surgeon, Edge snapped off each of the scabrous, Poison-tipped ribs one by one, placing them in a neat pile to the side of the serpentine corpse. With an audience of puzzled onlookers, he then took a tiny cotton bag out from his pack and, mindful of danger, scraped the rib fragments so that the graveroot powder fell into the bag. "Don't tell me," said Kerg, "they don't make it like they used too." "I know an alchemist in Pyzor who will give much gold for such a haul." Edge bobbed the string-tied bag, up and down. "Besides, the powder weighs next to nothing." "Fine," said Cynar anxiously, "just put it away." The rogue bent down, returned the pouch to the pack, then straightened up only to see the others still cowering away from the sarcophagus. "The danger is passed," confirmed the rogue. "Powdered graveroot will only doharm if it touches an open wound, like that cut on Kerg's finger. Thus it was placed on the jagged tips of the ribcage." "Good," sighed Kerg, "now may I remove the damn sword so we may leave this foul pit?" Without waiting for a reply, the warrior eased the weapon from the ghoulish pile of bones by carefully grasping the blade. He placed it crossways atop the coffin, while Vultor withdrew a desert-worn shirt from his pack and helped the big human wrap the blade. As the warrior tied the sword to his pack the dwarf ignited a fresh torch from the dying embers of the old flame. Vultor coughed and took a deep breath. "Let us be away from here. Though I am Dhokani and accustomed to caves, I am beginning to feel the pressure of the rocks above." "I too share the sensation." Edge placed a hand to his head and nodded to Vultor hat the dwarf may take the lead. "I feel unusually exhausted." Thus by retracing their steps the foursome eagerly exited the dreadful tomb and ascended the shallow stairway bearing the object of their quest. They reached the fiery red chamber and began walking to the chasm. Suddenly, Cynar cried out in a fearful voice from the rear of the short column, "Back! Come back quickly!" Bewildered, the three others turned just in time to see the wizard's unkempt robes fluttering as he sprinted back into the darkness of the archway. Then an acrid, briny odour assailed their nostrils, causing Kerg and Edge to stare at each other in puzzlement. Facing forward, Vultor could see the pentagram of gold they had seen on their way to the tomb was now glowing intensely. Gripped by an unknown fear, the dwarf then fell to the floor and began pushing himself back to the archway, too horrified to stand. Prompted by some fateful curiosity, both thief and warrior turned to face a swirling mist of blue sparks which was writhing into a solid form at the centre of the golden symbol of summoning. "The sentinel!" Edge was frozen with terror. "May Axan protect us!" mouthed Kerg -- the sound of his words drowned out by his own fear. The Thangarian stood motionless, taking mighty breaths to quell the terror within. The very spinning of the planet seemed to slow, and the barbarian's mind fought to make sense of the cobalt apparition that writhed before him, back-lit as it was by the bloody radiance emanating from the volcanic rift. Caught in some profane, chimerical dance, the thing shifted shape repeatedly, each form battling with another to gain sovereignty in this new plane of existence. It was at once a radiant silver starfish with festering pseudopodia bobbing in a current of alien ether. Then, as in the tilting of a mirror, it shifted again to resemble a many-hoofed, amethystine crustacean coated in sores of oozing puss, out of which sprouted many black shiny eyes, which in turn were mounted on swaying, antennae-like projections. Gradually over the passage of five laboured heartbeats, the forms began to curtail their rapid mutations as the trans-dimensional, conflict of genetics, resolved itself. Vapour arose from the cooling phantasm spawned beyond the stars. Four times the size of the big barbarian, it stood at the centre of the charred pentangle, now glazed in a blasphemous layer of afterbirth. Like a greedy child in a store full of candy, the demon surveyed the chamber, its three yellow eyes aflame with a malignancy born on some elder world of immortal hate. Then its humanoid body shifted forward on leathery clawed feet, its black, webbed wings opening and closing in an oily stretching motion. And Kerg saw that what he'd taken to be white hair flowing over its head was actually tentacle like feelers, each sniffing hungrily at the baleful air of this new universe. Unable to free himself from his dreadful prison of terror, Cynar looked on from the shadows of the curse-emblazoned archway. Vultor, still on the ground, clung to the tatters of the wizard's worn robe, eyes clenched, repeating a prayer to Thosk with spittle drooling down his beard. Edge, his skin drained of colour like some death-kissed zombie, had not budged. Only Kerg remained free to act, somehow immune to the demon-fear, which gripped his companions. His heart tore at his ribs like a trapped rat and sweat ran in rivers of dread down his back -- but he could still reason. The barbarian knew that the demon would toy with him, even as a cat plays with a spider, hence there would be no fleeing on this day. Neither could he attempt to fight the impious beast, even if his broken halfling sword had not been lost in the bone-dusted tomb below. Then Kerg thought of Talonsbane and the fateful story of possession tied to it. Deep in his fear-stricken heart he knew that he had but two options, to try ? or die. Staggering back, the warrior slipped the demon-charged weapon from his pack and began to unwrap it. Then, as he bent over the sword, the thong-tied, golden ring fell out from his tunic, swinging in front of him like a subtle message from the mighty god Axan himself. Knowing that he would need all the strength he could muster, the warrior impatiently tore the trinket from the leather thong and slipped it on his moist finger. Energy infused his body again and his muscles swelled with blood from the increased pumping force of his heart -- hyper-powered as if by some benign yet violent narcotic. With blinding speed the opalescent hilt found his sweat-dampened palm, and the kneeling warrior convulsed in an abrupt, psychic cramp that shook every fibre of his fright-riddled being. Though the spasm lasted but a biting second, to Kerg galaxies could have evolved and decayed in those apparent spirals of endless time, as he battled for his soul. Within the darkness of his mind the supernatural monster of the sword tore at the warrior's naked spirit. The demon, Tal-Kuthaqua, had brooded for centuries and now wished to gain egress into the world, to loose the psychic chains that bound to the atomic sub-structure of the sword. Through a pernicious language of painful revelation, Tal-Kuthaqua exposed his celestial truth to Kerg. The barbarian -- observer to all dimensions at once -- saw a billion species struggle out of primordial slime on as many planets and evolve into masters of their own destinies. Mighty wars dusted the heavens with the beloved dead of their sprawling empires and eternal loves drowned in the abysmal depths of time. All the races that had ever been or ever would be eventually expired thus, into the underlying chaos that was the stage, upon which law acted out its insignificant order. Even Kerg's gods, like all gods, were mere reflections of their followers -- driftwood, washed upon the cosmic shores of fate. Whereas a man of reason such as the wizard would have absorbed all this and sank like a dry sponge thrown into a tempestuous rapid of white water; the barbarian could not begin to comprehend the aroma of the multi-sensual images. He saw only his life -- his ultimate and only possession -- being stolen by a thief of souls. Kerg clung to the core of his identity with a savage aggression that snarled and wept, thankful for the meagre energies provided by the magic ring that rightly belonged to his tiny Deni companion. Tal-Kuthaqua uncoiled from around the warrior's impenetrable spirit and, ceasing in its caressing kisses of truth, debased itself enough to speak the dialect of mortals. "Give me your body, human; your soul you may keep, if you believe you truly have one." Unable to respond telepathically, Kerg repulsed the offer by a sickening mental disgust. "Very well... I sense your body burns with the fires of death, I shall have it ere you leave the city," said Tal-Kuthaqua, before receding from the warrior's mind. Opening his eyes, Kerg felt the hilt of the sword warming, the opal pulsing new life into its new master. Then he realised that he'd conquered one spirit, only to face another, more tangible demon. The huge beast had moved but a span during the momentary telepathic assault that had immersed the barbarian, yet still seconds flew by like a loosed arrow. The great fiend took up the thief in one enormous claw before throwing the catatonic human six spans towards the fiery pit. Edge's body landed in a skidding movement like a rag doll, his legs half over the cliff which glowed orange from the lava far below. As poured ale fills a goblet, Kerg's body now filled with the hideous power from Talonsbane, far surpassing the purely physical energies of the ring. His veins drank in this alien blood and he rose to his feet, glaring at the diabolical entity before him. The very skill of the demon-sword was his to command, and he no longer felt mortal fear. Momentarily, as if unsure, the monster paused to pick at its swelling, many-nippled chest with a powerful taloned hand. Then swiftly it launched its lithe bulk towards the doomed human. Kerg rolled aside, almost impelled by the sentient weapon in his grip. Then, as he turned to face the beast, a searing pain electrified his left thigh, which had been torn by the tip of an infernal claw. Blood poured freely over his knee, across his calf muscle onto the timeworn floor, and the almighty devil resumed its onslaught. Though its membranous wings were of limited use in the constricted chamber, the demon still covered the ten-span gap in a single, brutish bound, heedless of the toothpick in the humans' hands -- and therein lay its error. As the sentinel landed, the demon-infused warrior feigned a sudden jab at its face, causing the beast to uphold a paw of knife-like talons in defence. Almost simultaneously Kerg lashed the keen edge of the singing blade down in a line of shining death, opening up the creatures scabrous belly and allowing some of its steaming internal organs to splat heavily out onto the tiled floor. The creature roared in vindictive hatred as it poked at the vaporous gash that the small warrior had caused. The sweeping wound had produced only a trifling amount of physical pain, but the insult had infuriated the monster's spirit and weakened its position on this plane. Clicking its foam-soaked fangs in hate and leaving a bloodstained path of vitals in its wake, the archfiend approached the Thangarian again. Kerg knew nothing of demon-lore but, upon seeing the intensifying blue aurora which crackled around the sentinel, he judged that Talonsbane had caused the creature considerable damage. This time Kerg thought that he would go on the offensive. So, roaring a Thangarian curse, he moved to meet the demon. Acknowledging that size was both his greatest foe and ally, the warrior strutted forward with Talonsbane held in both hands and slightly downcast, in an attitude of submission. The sentinel now realised this mortal was a formidable opponent and thought to trick the warrior with a ploy of his own, faking a backhand strike with his right arm. Instinctively, Kerg fought to withdraw, but the sword he held remained dynamically motionless. Half-stooped, the confounded sentinel blinked momentarily; it was aware that the second part of its cunning ploy -- a grab with its left hand -- could not be completed, for the fearless human was unshaken. Spurred on by Talonsbane, Kerg grasped at the divine opportunity, even as the monster blinked. The barbarian lunged the remaining three spans with the sword, point first into the demon's middle, lamp-like eye. The hell-blade punctured the glassy orb with a crisp pop and plunged ever deeper into the sentinel's brain. The demon felt its hold over the newly formed body fading, then its throat contracted, and all the nerves of the elephantine bulk froze. Kerg fell backward to escape the huge form as it flopped heavily to the ancient tiles. The fleshy mass began to undulate rapidly, as if a thousand ravenous moles burrowed through the beast's dead arteries. Scenting a recognisable, briny odour, the warrior saw the blue aura regain dominance, encompassing the body, and he could just make out the transformations reshaping the form as it crumbled from this plane in a swirling haze of sparks. The smell of the demon's burning flesh filled the normally sulphurous chamber. Dropping Talonsbane, Kerg rushed over to Edge, who had not moved. Dragging the semiconscious thief back from the rim, he began to notice a rapid loss of energy within himself and, becoming extremely light-headed, had to turn away, unable to control the vomit spurting from his mouth. Murmuring thankful prayers to the gods of light, the wizard hurried over to the dizzy barbarian and awakening thief. Vultor followed, clinging to his axe like a monk to a holy symbol. "Kerg!" Cynar placed a hand on the warrior's shoulder. "Are you hurt?" "I feel," coughed the warrior through a blur of consciousness, "...feel..." and with that, Kerg collapsed. Unhitching his pack and rifling through it, the wizard passed Vultor a small sack. "Turn Kerg on to his back and place this sack under his neck so that his head is held away from his chest." "What?" Edge mumbled as he began to remember. "The beast!" He sat up, looking this way and that. "Rest easy," panted Vultor. "It's over friend." The companions spent a great while recovering their reason and eating some food for, notwithstanding the fearful surroundings, none of them felt fit enough to risk a return leap over the fiery chasm. Kerg's left thigh was dressed, although Cynar noted how the gash had already healed a great deal and had the appearance of a week-old wound. Sitting alongside the foreboding archway, they talked of how the battle between Kerg and the sentinel had seemed to draw on for an eternity, yet the whole brutal event had lasted scarcely half a minute. "I saw your face contort for a second," spoke Cynar to Kerg, "then you stood up immediately. At first I thought you were possessed by the demon-blade but after the monster fell and you cast the weapon down I knew that it was you who'd won through." "For a while I wondered myself if indeed I controlled the sword; it seemed to lead me rather than I, it," said Kerg. "But, by Axan - the power!" "How did you prevent the demon of the sword from taking you over?" The dwarf was filled with respect for the barbarian. "After putting on the ring, I recall only blackness when I try to think of it." Kerg replaced the ring on a cord at his neck. Then as the others began to slowly put the equipment back into the packs, he said, "Only the twisted words of the beast echo in my mind, yet those too whisk around so fast I cannot hear them." "Come; I need to feel the sun on my face again to be sure I still live." Edge began to stand but had to lean on the wall to remain upright. "The air must be bad, for I feel worse again." "I too, thief." Vultor also supported himself on the wall and breathed deeply. "'I sense your body burns with the fires of death, I shall have it ere you leave the city', were the words the blade spoke," said Kerg as waves of memory washed over him. "Yet, did I not avoid the graveroot?" "And we all feel unwell," said the mage in shallow breaths. "Quickly, set up the small brazier, I fear the curse we read on the entrance archway is still potent and the flower has done what the sentinel could not!" "After all these years?" said Edge in hazy astonishment as he collapsed to his knees. Tugging at his belt the wizard said, "The tomb of Jijjaresssh was dusted with Cthmoluk." "Blackstar!" The dwarf was alarmed. "Then we are dead, for the only cure is to become addicted to the black lotus and that is difficult enough to find in the living world, never mind a city of phantoms such as this." Vultor was becoming panicky. "Blackstar..." the thief allowed his tired head to slump on to his chest. "...Shit." "But you just happen to have some black lotus." Kerg's mouth curved into a worried smile, "right wizard." "No," said Cynar, who withdrew the dull spores he'd plucked earlier from the mouth of the effigy of Yhibbo-Sabba, "but I hope this may help." "We have no nettle sting, wizard, and that-" wheezed the barbarian. "Oh, I get the point. But how do you know that will cure us?" "The spores are a derivative of Cthopias and may negate the-" Cynar burst into a phlegm-loaded cough, "...poison." "Then hurry!" Sweat ran down Edge's pale, clammy face. "My arm's stiffening up." * * * * * "The physical pains and sickness are mere symptoms for the madness which will ensue should we survive." The wizard was working furiously on the drug. "Then we too shall be as Thymoor's master was -- insane for the remainder of our days." The spores fried in the shallow bowl on the hand-sized brazier and time slipped by, draining their lives, breath by laboured breath. Edge was almost completely paralysed, Vultor had lost his sight and could not walk, whilst Kerg shivered in a burning fever. The barbarian thought of holding the demon-sword to give him extra strength but resisted informing the others. He'd already put the ring on again, and it had done no good. Cynar was holding out well enough but coughed constantly, bringing up black mucus. When the spores had all but dried out, Cynar placed them in a bowl and ground them into a white powder. Then taking some herbs from his pack, he mixed them all together with water in a tin goblet. Kerg reached out to take the container but Cynar stayed his hand, saying, "Not so fast, the process cannot be rushed." The wizard placed the cup on the floor and leaned over it with a lit torch. The Pale, muddy liquid contained many wobbling reflections of the flame. Aware of the rapidity of the spreading poison, he muttered the required incantations over the precious fluid, knowing that to drink the elixir now could be just as lethal as any poison. By flame light, and accompanied by the audible formula, the liquid slowly cleared to look once more like water. Cynar took five small sips then indicated to Kerg to do likewise. Vultor fearfully gulped more than he should have, whilst Edge could not even move his jaw. Thus, with great effort, Cynar poured the remaining concoction down the rogue's mouth. They slept. * * * * * When Kerg finally awoke, his body ached and head pounded as if he had drank more ale than he believed he ever could. The others were motionless, but following a conscientious examination of their necks he was relieved to discover their arteries continued to pump life. Gradually, while the microscopic wars within their bodies ended, they too came to full consciousness, groggily at first then, more coherently. Weak and spent, the four companions ate a small meal and drank as much water as they could without jeopardising their return journey to Birin. It was many hours later when they had worked up enough vigour and courage to attempt the jump over the sulphurous fissure. Of all of them, only Vultor failed to make the crevasse in one leap, but a stout rope and Kerg's ever strengthening arms pulled the dwarf those last few inches, and soon they made their way back to the sculpted visage of Yhibbo-Sabba. "The mystery is finally solved, wizard," said Edge when they paused below the god's mouth. "Not only did Kerg defeat the sentinel but at long last the riddle of the flower is unravelled." "Yes," confirmed Cynar as he gathered more growths from the steps. "How did you think to pick those spores before?" asked the thief. "Of all this glowing fungi," the wizard gestured to the gaping cavern around, "only these steps seem to be home to this particular strain of spore. This prompted my curiosity. Upon closer examination I surmised that it was an unusual strain of Cthopias or starflower. Now, when forged with Molarash, it results in the deadly poison Cthmoluk, used of old to protect tombs and such places. The ancient priests of the Rhi-Shalak must have dropped tiny amounts of their preparation on these stairs as they tended to the sealing of the crypt below. Over the ages the powders festered and grew into this fungi." "So you had your suspicions of what the flower reference meant all along," groaned Kerg. "Not really; for as you can see this fungi looks nothing like a flower and, as I work with only the original names, it really only struck me when we all seemed to be suffering similar symptoms." "Part luck, part astute thinking," said the dwarf. "But I thought Cthmoluk poisoning could only be cured by addiction to black lotus?" "Molarash is the traditional escape but it is both lethally addictive and, due to its rarity, notoriously expensive. Besides, the potion I administered will need constant re-fortifying for many weeks to come." Cynar by now had amassed a great pile of the fungi from the fertile steps. "Thus we must take this, with us." Leaving the grim rock face of serpent skulls with their unpleasantly glowing eye sockets behind, the foursome made their way back through the mist-shrouded ancient city. With great haste they followed the meandering path along that awesome cavern, all the while imagining phantoms of dead serpentmen pressing at their backs. Not soon enough for their liking did they reach the comparative wholesomeness of the maze of tunnels that led to the exit. The clearings they'd created on their approach eased their return progress through the confined passages of the labyrinth. Even so, it was a full hour after vacating the mouth of the strange god that they eventually found themselves before the moving room, blocked again by the slab-like door. The wizard performed the now understood ritual of opening, and the panel rose, allowing them access into the cylinder where they breathed deeply from the cocoon of fresher air. Cynar set the chamber into motion by activating the simple, jewelled panel on the wall, and a deafening protestation of stone was heard from far above. No one said a word at this, for apprehension was inscribed deeply in their wearied faces. Abruptly, with a grinding jerk, the cylinder lurched upward, throwing the hopeful hearts of the passengers into their feet. Out into the desert the companions staggered, away from the towering obelisk and, casting their fading torches into the golden sand, covered their eyes in pain as a newly rising sun flooded the ruined city of Pherox, greeting them with a burning glory of cleansing light. Note: This story is excerpted from the book "Eye and The Sword", and in fact is "Chapter Fourteen: The Flower And The Sentinel". See the author's bio on the "About the Authors" page for more details on the author and the book. Story copyright 2001 by Steve Davison stevedavison@yahoo.com ------------------------------ CH010 Getting Game by Steve Davis On the brightly-lit bridge of a ship cruising the long darkness between star systems, a duty officer glanced away from his screens. Tapping a key, he called a location on the ship's outer hull. "Hi, Arnie. We may have something for you. There's a Possible ahead," the officer said. -Jay? Is that you? Sorry, I was into something. OK, I'm listening now.- "Working on something? Tell me about it, I'm always interested," the man invited. -All right. I was watching the stars go by out here and trying to come up with some kind of, I guess you'd call it, cosmic perspective.- "Yeah? Ah, you know, I'm glad you do that stuff and all. This whole insight thing, you know, it helps me too when we talk about it. It helps to compare notes. Your views, mine -- it's all good. "But, and don't get me wrong, I worry about weakening your resolve. I mean, I know you can't feel fear -- but doubt... now that can slow anybody. You know, at crunch time." -I understand your unease. There've been crunch failures by others. But I don't think we have to worry. I'm battle-ready. My commitments are intact. I don't foresee them being changed by the issues I'm currently grappling with.- That's great, Arnie. Forgive me. I should know better by now. You keep on keeping on. "Anyway, this Possible's a good fifteen minutes ahead. It's a drive signature, that's pretty sure, and doesn't look like anybody we know." -A new culture?- "Sorry, sorry. I put that wrong. No. It's just not one of ours, or a friendly. In fact it's up in the power range that They use." -Oh. I had hoped.- "Me too. But, anyway, if it does look like Them when we're closer, we'll drop back into realspace to arm and... Arnie? You went quiet on me." -A part of me hopes I don't have to kill. Of course, it's my responsibility: to destroy Them, to decrease their ability to kill you. In the end, I must do that. -But again and again, I look for a different way.- "I hear you, I really do. Keep looking, I know I'm going to... Hold on, something's changing. "Arnie, I think it's seen us. Yeah, the signal's picking up. They're moving this way and accelerating hard." "OK. It looks like three minutes, max, and then they're on us. That crazy-fast drive of theirs. How're you doing? What's your firing status?" -I'm primed. I recharged while you were on sleep shift. I can launch from now.- "Good, real good. Still cutting it short. "OK, then, Arnie. Begin?" -Yes, Jay. Begin.- "All right." The man's tone became formal. "Class NXS weapon. This is official notice of Need to Defend." -Confirm Need to Defend notice.- "Downloading information on possible target." -Information being studied. I find this target Valid. Status: Danger.- "Request decision notification." -My decision is Attack. Arming now.- The smart weapon, representing nine generations of innovation from the bombs that had guided themselves onto the roofs of Baghdad a century earlier, burst away from the ship. Accelerating, it shot ahead so sharply that the ship's instruments momentarily lost track of it. In that near-blur, as it was to even Their sensors, the smart weapon began zigzagging, diving in at almost random angles. The other ship began firing sophisticated energy weapons, some non-linear, blasts bending to intercept the smart's own bending trajectory. Making a snap decision, the smart transitioned, nearly dropping into realspace, then accelerating at maximum velocity. That sudden move, which was almost foolish so close to the target, threw off the other ship's defenses for less than a nanosecond. But that was all the smart weapon needed. Flashing almost past the target ship, the weapon triggered. In a blinding ball of fusion destruction, both smart weapon and ship disappeared. On the smart weapon's ship, the duty officer let out a victory whoop. He stopped mid-shout, realizing how the smart weapon would have viewed what it had just done. With regret, no doubt. Lives had been lost. There wasn't much to celebrate. For a moment the man admitted the truth of that grim evaluation. Having smarts do the killing had made it easier, somehow more distant, less real. They decided when, and how, to strike. People usually watched in safety, from the sidelines. But giving more and more responsibility to the smarts was starting to bite. The newest ones asked questions, hard ones. Remembering his conversations with this one, the officer made a personal decision. He'd keep his promise to look for a way out of the conflict. There had to be something that hadn't been tried. Some other way, some better solution than this. Less death, somehow. The odds against succeeding were high, given the history of the conflict. It had grown literally stronger than reason. Every part of the situation seemed locked in and unchangeable. But a major first step had already been achieved. On one, small weapons carrier, in one tiny corner of the universe, humanity was getting its head back into the responsibility game. Story copyright 2001 by Steve Davis SD071451@msn.com ------------------------------ CH011 Learning to Walk in the Age of Machines by Michael Athey Although the view from the bedroom window was pleasant that afternoon, it did nothing to brighten Bob's mood. The morning storms had finally cleared off, leaving a misty haze over the tiny plots of grass lining their sleepy neighborhood street, the afternoon sun winking through the red and gold highlights of the autumn trees. Youngsters, finding redemption from the waning Saturday clouds, sought newfound adventure along the streets, zipping and zigging and zagging on blurs of blue steel and silvery chrome, their bicycles thirsty for the next puddle to splash or the next curb to jump. The neighbor's psy-dog, Freeway (so named for where Pete and Alice Walker had discovered the smelly, ragged seer), sniffed in consternation around and around the plastichrome trash bin in Bob's driveway, most likely seeking a morsel of raw synthetic steak that had been, or would be, or never was discarded. An automower chugged methodically along a lawn across the street, while next door a young couple beat a glowing blue holographic ball -- holo-ball, Bob believed the game to be called -- back and forth between them with electronic paddles. It should have been relaxing, looking on a throwback to the Saturdays Bob had once savored in his long-past childhood. But he soaked it all in passively from his bedroom perch -- where he'd confined himself for the past, oh, he'd lost count how many days -- his form laying immobile, his face unable to crack a smile at anything he regarded, every image merely a momentary distraction from the discussion that would inevitably occur once Mary returned from her chores. It had remained relatively quiet upstairs, save for the occasional intrusion of service droids skittering in and out of the bedroom doorway, chirping offers in high-pitched droning voices: "Care for the paper, Mr. Atwood?" "May we adjust the lighting for you, Mr. Atwood?" "May we drive you totally buggy with insipid requests, Mr. Atwood?" -- gibbering on and on, a mandatory accouterment proffered by the State to aid Bob in his debilitated condition. Eventually, well beyond the point when they had grown tiresome, he had deferred them to the downstairs, instructing them to assist Mrs. Atwood at whatever task she was most assuredly having difficulty with in the living room, so that he could at least have the afternoon to ponder the discussion that had to come a bit further. It would hardly be a discussion, though, Bob had decided. There were no negotiations to make, no angles to work out, no details to nail down; the decision had already been made, but it was not one for which he felt any verve or positive conviction. Hence he felt no joy, laying there, the aftershock of the solution he'd fashioned boring into him, as he regarded the clear day that had emerged from the angry gale earlier that day. The storm was still swirling in his mind. He cursed out loud, scolding himself for his inability to release the memories: the maelstrom of hypnagogic images superimposed upon all that he saw, the recollections of the accident tearing apart and blending back together again in a blurry mixture of lucid truth and deceptive mirage, the deafening blare of the horns in helpless warning, the walls of the chambers flashing in a fluctuating rhythm to the horns, between glowing red and pitch black, the faces burning and falling off everyone as the radiation surge hit, the crumbling support beams collapsing all about them, his own flesh melting, the blackness closing in. A loud clatter from beyond the bedroom doorway shook Bob's attention, the sound of metal tools ricocheting against the polyurethane floor of the living room, followed by Mary's distinct curses. Bob used to feel a surge of warmth upon hearing his wife's frustrated attempts at maintenance about the household, waiting for the breaking point that would most assuredly arrive when she would crawl to him and plead him to fix whatever larger problem it had become. "Oh, pleeease, honey, you're an engineeeeeer, you could fix this in a jiiiiiiffy!" she would say, or something similar, and he would undoubtedly fold, after he'd allowed her to squirm for a few playful moments. And he'd fix it, sure enough, because he was good at fixing things. But, then again, that had been when he was still able to walk. Now, he'd do anything to keep her from asking him about whatever she was screwing up down there. He still needed more time to think.... "Honey?" Mary's voice purred. Bob looked at her, startled by her sudden appearance in the bedroom doorway -- h somehow hadn't even heard her ride the lift up. "You sleeping?" she asked, probing. "Hmm?" Bob mumbled in mock fatigue. "Oh, no, just looking outside. What's up?" "I'm giving up!" she declared. "What?" "On the projectors in the living room, remember? I was going to fix the display so we could-" "Oh, yeah," said Bob, intentionally cutting her off. "I remember. Fuzzy display, right?" "Uh-huh. So I tried adjusting it, but it's still fuzzy!" "Mm," Bob grunted, looking out the window again. "Well?" asked Mary with a twinge of annoyance. "What should I do?" "You could double-check the image vectors-" "I did that already!" "And you're sure they're set correctly?" "YES!" she wailed, throwing up her arms, then dropping them again as quickly, her face drooping to a pensive scowl. "Well, maybe they are, I dunno." "You should check 'em again, honey," Bob offered distractedly, his eyes still fixed out the bedroom window. "Oh, OK," Mary mumbled, turning to leave, then stopping, her hands clasped nervously. "Could you do it, dear?" "What?" "Just come downstairs with me real quick and I'll show you-" "I don't think so, hon," Bob spat quickly. "It'll just take a second, sweetie-" "I really don't feel like it right now." "I know, I know, but you know more about this stuff than I do, and it would really help me out, if we could just get you in your chair and-" "I said no, Mary," Bob replied with finality, glaring more intensely out the window, his view fixated on a senseless point on the house across the street. "Besides, you'd just hurt yourself trying to move me again." "But with the droids I could-" "They'd just break again." Mary regarded her husband quizzically, then hardened her gaze beneath a weathered frown. "Fine," she said, turning briskly in place. "Just keep laying there and rot, if that's what you want. I'll figure it out myself!" She stormed quickly to the lift, mumbling a parting remark: "I swear, I just don't understand you anymore." "Wait," said Bob. "What, dear?" she asked, turning with a look of severity as she mounted the lift. Bob momentarily lost his voice as he regarded his wife, looking longingly at her face. It was still beautiful. Youth still burned in her eyes, but the lines that had etched themselves into the once-smooth surfaces of her forehead -- having creased and settled permanently into the flesh over merely the last few years -- told a different story, an older tale. It was a tale equally woven into her hair -- the stark gray streaks threatening to overthrow the auburn locks cropped to her shoulder, her body forced to age the equivalent of decades in a scant few years. "I-I'm sorry, Mary," Bob finally managed to say. "I didn't mean to snap at you." Mary sighed. "Mm-hm. Fine, dear. I'll be downstairs if you need me." She turned to get on the lift again. "Can you just wait?" Bob pleaded, gathering his resolve. "You can work on the vid-screens later, OK?" Her face softened. "Sure, sweetie. I'm sorry, too, by the way." "No reason to be," Bob remarked, chuckling dryly. "Still, we shouldn't fight so much," she said, smiling as she sat down beside Bob on the bed. "I'd love to talk, though, if you're up to it." "Yes," Bob remarked firmly. "We should talk." "Oh!" said Mary, jolting upright. "You should hear what happened to me at work the other day." Mary nudged a fraction closer, her hand beside Bob's face, and she began recalling the fairly interesting goings-on at the synthetic pets plant -- most likely Freeway's true origin, Bob figured, judging by its marks -- which was a good half-hour commute by lightrail, double that by floater. Bob had insisted on her taking the job in the city when it had been offered. It was good for her, he'd surmised. It kept her busy, kept her in contact with her associates, kept her occupied with other concerns rather than having to take care of him (they couldn't afford even a part-time nurse, real OR synthetic, on Bob's meager severance and Mary's passing salary), and Bob had assured her at the outset of her new employment that he would be able to take care of himself just fine. It wasn't as though he was going to fall down the escalator lift or anything, he used to joke. "But then," Mary continued, bumping Bob slightly, "they didn't even consider my proposal for inter-breed anomaly research!" "Oh," said Bob, seemingly attentive. "And I know why, I tell you!" Mary said with her finger pointing mischievously into Bob's face. "It's that new young academy spawn, Gleason! Always spouting on about 'Huh, We weren't taught to do it that way in the Academy'." So animated, she was, as she talked. Like the children outside, electric, her body more alive than ever, her arms gesturing this way and that in mock frustration as she unfolded the corporate soap opera for him. He remembered sharing that energy, how it bounced back and forth between them when they had first met, that creeping, dropping feeling that had filled his stomach as they'd first locked gazes at the hyperball arena on Luna three years ago and knew, just somehow knew, they would end up together. "So I told Gene, 'Listen, I don't give a hopping duck fart whether or not he's from the academy'." How she had looked that morning, as he'd prepared to catch the seven o'clock lightrail to the plant, zipping up his blue coveralls as she stirred awake, her blue eyes shimmering beneath the soft early sunlight as they spoke softly to one another in that small, dingy inner-city loft, those last words he'd spoken before kissing her lightly on the lips and then rushing out the door with his rucksack in tow, the promise he'd made. "But Gene said 'I don't care where he came from, Mary, his input is just as valid as anyone else's!'." How she cried, endlessly, the tears a flood from her eyes as she hovered near him, one of the few discernable forms amidst the blinding pristine walls of the hospital, her hand, its knuckles white, clutching his, squeezing the burnt, bandaged, unrecognizable excuse for a paw that remained... feeling nothing, not even a tingle, wanting to move, to wiggle a toe, to bend a knee, to do the impossibly simple as his wife cried on and the ghost-like surgeons all around him shook their heads to each other -- his charred, broken body hopelessly pressed into the casket as he began to sink away, deeper and deeper, into an all-enveloping darkness. "And you know what he said next? He said-" "Honey," Bob cut in. "I know you like talking about work and all, but can we just, I dunno, hold off for now?" Mary's mouth hung partially open as she regarded him for a moment. "Sure, Bobby," she said, nudging a fraction closer. "I'm sorry. I guess I just get caught up in all that stupid gossip that goes around." "I understand," Bob said reassuringly. "Look, uh." His mind tensed, the storm brewing, threatening to strike. "I need to, that is, I have to tell you." "What, sweetie? What's wrong?" "OK," he began again, contemplating her nervous hands, wringing in slow, vicious circles, over and under, over and under, wanting to reach out and still them, warm them with his own, reassure them, an overwhelming urge as the synapses fired, demanding a response, as though his hands would still comply, only to have nothing happen. He swore involuntarily. "Jesus, Bobby!" Mary cried, taken aback. "What's gotten into you lately?" "I'm sorry," replied Bob, trying to regain his composure. "I've had quite a lot on my mind, thinking about lots of things-" "Well, that's no surprise," Mary quipped solemnly, brushing aside the statement with a wave of her hand. "Considering how much time you've been spending up here lately." "I know. I know I've been distancing myself-" "Talk about an understatement!" Mary said in disgust, rising quickly from his side, pacing in a slow methodical circle about the bedroom. "I remember when you wanted anything but to be stuck in that bed! You used to plead with me to take you outside, to get in the sunlight, to go and talk with the neighbors, anything but be inside, but now, now you refuse to do anything!" "As if there's anything I can do," Bob remarked with a touch of bitterness. "Anything a corpse could do, I suppose, but little else." Mary stopped in mid-circle, her eyes probing. "Listen to you," she began, "I thought we had worked through all this. I thought things were starting to get better. I thought we were going to try to make things better. I thought things were improving, but you, just then, you sounded exactly like you did two years ago-" "Everything's the SAME as two years ago!" Bob shouted, unable to stave off the storm any longer. "Not just the same, though, no, it's worse. And every goddamn day gets worse and worse than the last! Every morning I wake up and try to move, try to get up out of the bed, try to scratch my nose, or stretch my arms, and every morning I fail. Every goddamn morning I'm reminded of what happened, and of what my body once was but no longer is -- nothing but a tomb, nothing but a goddamn prison that I can't escape from." Mary let out a low moan, crossing her arms. "I can't believe you. I can't understand why you're being like this." Her right hand went to her face, thumb and forefinger rubbing the ridge between her eyes. "It's all the same, all the same stuff we went over with Dr. Morgan after you were released. You sound like, Jesus, Bobby, I can't stand this! I can't relive all this with you again! I just can't!" Bob gazed evenly at Mary as she turned away, her nose sucking back moist sniffles, her eyes noticeably red. "We have to talk about this, Mary-" he began. "NO!" Mary barked, whirling to face him. "I refuse! I absolutely refuse to talk about this anymore! Not until you start helping me!" Tears had begun sneak along the ridges of her eyes. "Things aren't going to get any better unless you help me!" "And what would help?" Bob shot back. "What exactly do you want me to do, Mary? What, just get over it? Huh? Just keep letting you wheel me around the neighborhood, around the market, around the city quadrants as if everything's all fine and dandy? Just ignore all those stares and mournful looks and patronizing words that everyone shoots at us everywhere we go-" "What stares?" Mary asked, unbelieving. "Nobody stares at you!" "Of course they do, Mary!" Bob nearly screamed. "Everywhere we go, they're staring, disgusted, standing there, gawking as we go by, feeling oh so sad for the 'poor young woman' and her 'forsaken' husband." Mary began shaking her head violently. "That's what they say, Mary," he continued. "That's all they ever say." "Nobody says that!" "All the time, Mary. You just refuse to hear it, because." Bob stopped, trying to hold back the words. "Because what?" Mary spat through a painful grimace. Bob let out a long sigh. He hadn't wanted it to come up, but he supposed it had to, it was unavoidable at this point, anyway. "Well?!" Mary prodded. "I know about the meds, Mary," Bob said. "I called up the credit logs on the bedroom display while you were at work the other day, all those allocations to Clark's Downtown Drug. You're taking skin-permeable tabs. Don't deny it. You can see the discoloration on your carotid artery." Mary's left hand rose to her neck, rubbing it nervously as she looked away. "I noticed it about a week ago," he continued. "You've been filling out your own prescriptions through your business contacts. Anti-depressants. You've been taking them for a while." Bob's voice quivered slightly. Mary dropped to the bed in a tired gesture, running her hands through her hair. "I just needed something, Bobby. It's been hard, you know? I just needed something to help me get through-" "I know why you're taking them," Bob remarked. "I know that it's mostly because of me, and I can't stand knowing that, Mary. You can't tell me that that's not one of the reasons." "I." Mary's voice cut off, choking back the words, making the chasm within Bob widen -- he knew he'd been right. She sat silent, her face buried in her hands. Bob turned his gaze back to the window. "I'm sorry that I brought it up," he said. "You'd been trying to cover it up, but I couldn't let it stand any longer. I couldn't watch you do this to yourself anymore." "I'm not abusing them, Bobby," Mary said defensively. "That's not-" Bob growled in frustration. "That's not what I meant! It's just, well, you shouldn't have had to turn to them in the first place! And it drives me crazy to know that I had something to do with it, and thinking that, well, perhaps, if things had been different -- if I hadn't survived -- if they hadn't saved me-" "Don't say that!" Mary wailed. "How on earth can you say something like that?!" "Because it's killing me, Mary," Bob said. "It hurts even more now, more than ever. It killed me to see that look on your face, every time we went over to Pete and Alice's, watching how you looked when you were holding their baby, all the time thinking about the promise I'd made to you, knowing I'd never be able to fulfill it-" "Is that what this is all about?" Mary asked. "Having a baby? We talked about this before, honey! It's OK, really! I'm over it! I got over it a long time ago!" "I can tell you're lying," Bob said. "I know how much it meant to you, how much it still means to you." Mary rose from the bed again, muttering quietly to herself, her arms hugging her body, shaking her head in disbelief. "What's the point, though, Bobby?" she asked. "Why bring it up again? It doesn't do any good! We can't do anything about that now! But we can try to make things better for us, right?" Bob remained quiet, too despondent to answer. "Maybe we could take you back to the clinic," Mary offered. "They've made several advancements since the operation after your accident-" "Impossible," Bob spat. "You know we can't afford it." "We could take out a loan-" "We're still paying off the loan we took out when we moved out here, to this house!" Bob pointed out. "We can barely afford to get by as is!" "Still, we could at least try-" "No, Mary," Bob said, cutting her off again. "It's pointless. It doesn't matter anyway." He looked out to the driveway, at the floater silently pulling to a stop in their driveway. "Nothing matters now." Mary regarded her husband curiously, her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" she began to ask as the doorbell chimed downstairs, startling her. "Who could that be?" "That's what I've been wanting to talk to you about," Bob said with a stern gaze. "I called them via audio link while you were working downstairs this morning." "Called who?" The doorbell chimed again. "You better let them in," Bob said. "Just a second!" Mary snapped. "Let who in? Who did you call?" Bob simply gazed at her, silent. "Tell me, Bob!" she exclaimed. "I'm not letting a soul into this house until you tell me who they are!" "Excuse me, ma'am." The short, stocky man dressed in white coveralls brushed past Mary, kneeling beside Bob. "What the Hell?!" Mary yelled. "We'll just be a sec," the man muttered to her. "I didn't code you in!" Mary said accusingly. "Coded ourselves in, ma'am," said another man, dressed in white as well, from the bedroom doorway. "How dare you-" Mary began to scream. "Honey, please," Bob said soothingly. "Don't fight them. They're from the hospital. Just let 'em do their job." "Could you move aside, ma'am?" asked the man in the doorway. "We need to get his chair next to the bed." "NO!" Mary wailed, pushing ferociously into the man's chest. "I won't let you!" "Aw, Jesus," the man next to the bed blurted. "Hal, juice her down, will ya?" Mary continued to scream nonsensically as the man, carefully avoiding her flailing strikes, plunged a needle gun into her neck with a fast, routine motion. The sedative took hold in seconds, Mary's body falling limp in the uniformed man's arms. "There we go," the man named Hal said, setting her weak form gently beside her husband on the bed. "Just lie down and relax. We'll be out of your hair soon." Mary lay helplessly on the bed, her head dipped to her side, her eyes dilating slowly amidst a well of tears, watching as the gradually blurring images of the men from the hospital hoisted Bob into his motorized chair with one tremendous heft. "Bobby." she croaked. "Please." "Everything will be OK, sweetie," Bob said calmly. "You'll see." "No." Mary whispered meekly. "I'll miss you, Mary." Bob watched her form recede as the men accompanied him to the lift, how she cried, as she had cried before, cursing himself for creating new pain. But she'll be fine now, he thought to himself. She'll find someone else, start a new life. One of the men rushed out the front door ahead of them as the lift slowly rested onto the living room floor, the pristine floater hovering quietly in the street. She'd finally have a chance, Bob continued to muse. A chance to have a family. She was still eligible. She wouldn't have been, if this all had gone on too much longer, but she wasn't too old yet, no, she still had a window. She still had a chance now. * * * * * A small furry form came ambling up to their group from a clump of bushes as Bob was led out the front door of the house. "Hey there, Freeway," said Bob. The shaggy mutt sniffed at them once, then ran off as quickly as it came, wailing a high-pitched cry. Bob watched it disappear down the darkened street. It knows, he thought to himself. It knows what's happening. One of the men followed Bob into the back of the floater, the other taking the helm at the front. Bob eyed the man named Hal morbidly as he reached into a bulky gray medical kit and pulled out a thin silver tool. "I'll only ask this once, sir," Hal began as the floater eased away from the house and ambled off down the road. "Are you sure, absolutely sure-" "Yes," Bob said simply. "Proceed, please." The man nodded grimly as he carefully inserted the tool into the side of Bob and turned it, slowly, ninety degrees counter-clockwise. Bob's mind relaxed as the hum of his internal atomic motor gradually lowered in pitch, as his primary processing programs closed and erased themselves, as the intricate wires within the small steel box that housed his psyche fused and became useless. He felt the gradual sinking -- that same sinking as he'd once felt on the hospital casket -- as the view from his unblinking, fiber-optic eyes diminished, growing darker in tandem with the dimming LED displays on his outer housing, until finally, after what seemed an eternity, his entire self sunken away, he opened his own eyes again, felt himself rise and turn -- in whatever direction he was unsure -- and then he walked away, without a known destination, looking forward to the chance that would hopefully come, the chance to walk with Mary once again. Story copyright 2001 by Michael Athey shurikeneo@hotmail.com ------------------------------ CH012 Open Twenty-Four Hours by Edward McKeown Tars Bokara shuffled down the dusty corridors of the Medakala Museum of Antiquities, heading for the Curator's office. Not only did he have the bad luck to work for the poorest, least prestigious of Col-Traxis III's one-thousand museums, but he worked for Arn Poundstone. Once hailed as a genius, Poundstone was showered with awards before the High Committee realized he had stolen most of his work from a junior colleague killed on one of his expeditions. By then it was too late to undo the honors without calling into question the whole academic system. Better to pack the madman off to where he could do little damage, till the sands of history safely covered him. The Committee did not reckon with Poundstone's fierce determination to avoid those sands. From the neglected halls of Medakala, he launched assaults on the ivory ramparts of high academia. He was always driven back, but casualties were often heavy and Poundstone was never among them. Poundstone sent out ill-equipped and ill-fated expedition after expedition, in the hope of making the "big find" that would restore his glory. Many a fine young archeologist ended up in the gullet of some ferocious alien monster, or at the hands of unfriendly natives. Bones bleached under forgotten suns, doubtless to confuse future historians. Thoughts of ending up as an exhibit made Bokara start. He looked about at the Rigellian mummies and Arcturian flayed skins with fresh horror. He'd never wanted to be an historian anyway. On Col-Traxis however, it was either history, or waiting tables. After graduation, the assignment-pool computer sent him to the Medakala Museum, sentencing him to virtual serfdom until and unless he gained tenure. He reached the curator's office and peered in past the automatic doors. Merinda, the department secretary, sat at her desk. Pleasant and middle-aged, she served as his first line of defense against Poundstone. Tars cultivated the older woman with chocolates, flowers, and flattery. She saw through him, of course, but enjoyed the attention. Merinda caught his eye briefly, looking away with a stricken expression. He knew then that it was over. His defenses had failed. The barbarians were over the wall. All that remained was pillage and slaughter. Nerving himself, he walked in. "Go right in, Tars," she said in a low, sad voice, "he's waiting for you." "Don't suppose there's any way out of this one?" he asked. Merinda gave a small sob and looked away. Bokara squared his shoulders and marched in, determined now to meet his fate without flinching. Entering the immense office, he faced a huge desk devoid of any useful or relevant work. There could be no question he was in the presence of senior management. Poundstone rose from behind the ornate wooden plateau, walking around to greet him. The curator looked the part of field archeologist, tall, tanned, with a broad, sloping forehead and intense dark eyes. He reminded Bokara of the busts of the ancient emperors and senators from the early days of the Galactic Empire, the human ones anyway. It was easy to imagine such a face giving orders for a suicide attack by a legion, or the firing of a Hellburner on a city. "History-Technician Level Five Bokara," he said, pleased there was no quiver in his voice, "reporting as ordered." "Excellent, my boy," said Poundstone in a deep, pleasing voice. "Good to see you. How's that father of yours?" "Still dead, sir." "Excellent," said Poundstone. "Bokara, today is the day that will define your career. It's fieldwork that makes the historian, I say. How I hate to be chained in this office, unable to get back to the field." "Yes, sir," he replied, as something seemed expected. "You are going to lead an expedition," announced Poundstone, a fiendish glint in his eye. "An expedition to rediscover Old Earth, the well-spring of humanity, lost to us these fifty-thousand years, since the Great Diaspora after the Cluster War." Bokara blinked in confusion. "Earth? Isn't that a myth?" "Not at all," said Poundstone, hands cutting through the air. "Hist-Tech Nasia found coordinates in the gunnery computer records of a Beta Centauri warcruiser, salvaged 10,000 years ago. It might well be Old Earth. Poor child, it's a shame about her and those Hyper-Wolverines on the Vegan Expedition." Bokara felt the air empty out of the room. "Me, lead an expedition, sir? I am not experienced-" "Oh, you'll do," chuckled Poundstone. "It will be easy. Less a matter of leading the expedition than being the expedition. We are running short of people, due to the Vegan and Deltan affairs. Those geniuses in the Prime Museum won't give me the funding for replacements and equipment. I'm afraid it will just be you. Don't worry, we booked you a passage on an AI-freighter, which will divert to the coordinates then pick you up. We also found a Human-Form Combat Robot in one of the lower storage levels, in an exhibit no one's seen in four-hundred years. We'll send that with you; if we can get it working." Poundstone continued, but the fuzziness of shock put distance between Bokara and the details of his doom. * * * * * Two months later, Bokara sat in his tiny cabin on the Artificial Intelligence Ship, Gumpina, closing on an utterly unremarkable G-class star, where the ancient Beta Centauri warcruiser had exploded. Bokara wished the cruiser had totally disintegrated, perhaps then he might have been spared long enough to transfer out of Medakala. Gumpina's AI was no longer speaking to him. His first six weeks aboard had been spent in a state of near total intoxication. Unfortunately, he misjudged the rate at which he consumed his anodyne, leaving him to face the last two weeks of the voyage in dreadful sobriety. A desperate attempt to cobble together a still from the ship's robot spares put him and the ship on the outs. Suddenly the speaker over his head crackled, buzzed, and emitted a toneless feminine voice. "Gumpina to passenger, entering far orbit of Class 43B2-type planet. Your personal AI robot is now active and will handle all further communications." The machine's dry voice managed to sound disapproving of his existence. He didn't bother to reply. The door to his small cabin slid open. He looked up with little interest. A machine stood there, far different from the squat shipbots. Slim and graceful, it seemed almost feminine in appearance. Colorless monofilament wire lay like hair on its shoulders. Antennae or heat sink he assumed. Its rudimentary face, with small delicate features, at least gave a human eye somewhere to focus when communicating with it. He wondered briefly if it looked like the designer's girlfriend. The silver body, intended to reflect energy weapons, badly needed polishing. Dents, discolorations, and melt spots told of hard service. Curiously, it wore a frayed, threadbare, black vest with the silver letters, AN158909 on it. The machine stopped, its mouth speaker opening. "HCR Unit AN158909, Imperial Assault Infantry, First of the 71st, reporting as ordered." "Great," he said dully, "hate to break it to you, but you were surplused over six-hundred years ago." "This unit has no other designation." "Effective immediately you are... Ann-One, of the Medakala Expedition." The robot mulled it over; its reflective silver, human-like eyes fastened on him. "Affirmative." "The ship's AI informs me that we are in a stable orbit," advised Ann-One, "it requests we disembark as soon as possible." "I'll bet," said Bokara. "Let's go Ann-One. We know when we aren't wanted." They made their way to the ship's only small shuttle. Ann-One climbed into the pilot seat and pulling some leads from compartments in its body, jacked into the shuttle's computer. Bokara plunked into the chair behind Ann-One. The robot started the engines and Gumpina's shuttle kicked free, heading planetward like a meteor. Bokara sighed, then peered over Ann-One's metal shoulder at the monitor screen. He expected to see a dead world, or a primitive, savage wilderness. To his shock, the nightside of the world ahead was lit up like a Pinnellian Fire Tree at Holiday. "Ann-One, give me scanner readings." "Affirmative. Readings indicate the presence of multiple energy sources on the planet. Detecting artificial light in visible spectrums. Infrared sensors show multiple heat sources inconsistent with volcanic origins. Apart from oceans and the polar regions, the surface is covered by what appears to be a structure of approximately ten to twenty meters in height. There are some open spaces, which appear to be filled with transports. Much of the building's surface is lit in geometric patterns." "The whole planet," he said in awed disbelief, "one big building? Ann-One, steer for a landing on a clear area somewhere on that northern continent where the lights are thickest. Any sign of people? Any communications?" "Negative to both queries." They landed on a staging area for aircraft and hovercars. Machines lay around in decrepit heaps. Clearly, it had been ages since any of them had flown. They peered through the canopy at a massive field of neon and electric signs. "Damn," said Bokara, "forgot to activate my implant". He found the proper mental vibe and triggered the psychotronic computer link. "Language protocol upload," he subvocalized to Gumpina's AI. "Translate." "No immediate match available," it whispered directly into his mind, "continuing to process." Ann-One secured the small vessel's drives, while he checked the atmospheric sensors. Humanity's old home, if this was indeed it, still welcomed her children. Excitement overcame him, Old Earth at last. He cycled open the lock. Wet, cool air rushed in, along with a two-meter tall, blue, yellow and green chitinous horror, waving antennae and claws. Bokara screamed, backpedaling, snatching at his stunner. He lost his footing and the weapon, tumbling into Ann-One as the HCR rushed to his aid. She raised scratched, silver arms to ward off the horror. The monstrous insect drew itself up to its full height, compound eyes glaring. "Welcome to EarthMart," it bellowed. "Open twenty-four hours!" "Whoa...what?" he stammered, half-frozen in shock. "Welcome to EarthMart," repeated the insect, "where the customer is king. Open twenty-four hours for your shopping convenience." The translation program, he thought, is totally screwed. "Do you understand me?" he ventured, when the creature did not attack. "Of course," it replied, "EarthMart understands the customer's wants and needs. Your accent is awfully funny, though. Course, who am I to say? You are the first customer we've had on the planet in five-thousand years." "It doesn't want to eat me," he muttered. Ann-One took it as a question. "Insufficient data. However, imminent hostility is not apparent." "Of course not, sir," sputtered the insect, "the customer is king at EarthMart, not an hors d'oeuvre." The translation program finally flashed an identification of the creature on his interior eye surface, "Periplaneta americana, a.k.a. the American cockroach." "Pardon my asking," he said, slowly reaching for the fallen stunner, "are you a cockroach?" "Yes, sir," said the insect, "one of the last four original species left. Well, five, I guess, now that you are back. I'm the Greeter for the Greater Northeast Area. It's an honor to meet you. Please enter our store, oh credit-worthy one." Bokara studied the creature before him. Now that he was not in mortal danger of being devoured, he had leisure to take in the details. The insect was a shiny brown, the blue and yellow were a vest and queer, four-legged pants. "Um, perhaps my information is obsolete, but aren't cockroaches about this big?" he said, waving his pinkie. "That was in ancient days," explained Greeter. "After you humans left, our evolution sped up. Nature abhors a vacuum. We like to joke that the boys in Housewares abhor them too," it added conspiratorially. "Do you have a name?" asked Bokara, holstering his stunner. The insect replied with a series of cracking and snapping sounds. "Well," said Bokara, "my translation program didn't make anything out of that. Can I call you Greeter?" "The customer is always right at EarthMart," replied the insect. Bokara took that as a yes. "Hey," said Greeter, taking an interest in Ann-One, "did you go to some other part of the store? Where did you get that, Toys, or Home Electronics?" Ann-One somehow seemed miffed. "I was constructed at the Omega-Ram facility on Negal-Six, as a Human-Form Combat Robot, one-thousand, seven-hundred, thirty-eight years ago. I was surplused, due to obsolescence, four-hundred and ninety-six years later." "That's too bad," said Greeter, "if you'd gotten it here, we could have offered you a trade-in." "No," said Bokara quickly. "Ann-One is fine with me. She's my crew." "Wow," enthused Greeter, "two customers. Oh, I'm in the history books for sure." "Speaking of which," said Bokara, "I'm a History-Technician. Old Earth's been lost to galactic history for millennia. I'm on a mission to rediscover it, to learn its history. Please take me to your leader." Greeter gave an impression of surprise, maybe even shock. "You want to see the Store Manager?" it croaked. "Is there something wrong?" "No. No," said Bokara quickly. "I'm interested in- in the store's history. How it's run? What sells?" "All right, sir," said Greeter dubiously. "It will be quite a journey, it's a long way to the manager's office. I'll take you, if you want to go. We'd have to use the store transit, sir. I've never been up in an aircraft before. I wouldn't know how to direct you." "Ann-One, can we use the shuttle in atmosphere?" asked Bokara, nervous about disappearing into the bowels of the planetary building. "Ill-advised," replied the robot, "without exact coordinates. This model shuttle is not designed for long atmospheric transits. Fuel is limited." "Best we get going," said the giant roach, scuttling back out of the airlock. "Come on, Ann," said Bokara shakily, "we're off." "This unit should remain and secure the shuttle." "No," he said. "Obsolete or not, you are coming with me. I like the thought of having a combat robot with me. Hey, do you still have any of your onboard weaponry?" "Affirmative, I am armed with three-millimeter lasers in each index finger, stunners in the ring fingers and palm blades in both hands." "Ann, I think I love you." "This unit is not a pleasure model," she replied primly. "Hey, how come you didn't shoot Greeter?" "All weapons are on safe." "Damn," he said. "I should have spent some time reading your manual. Oh well, it worked out for the best. You would probably have barbecued our native guide." "Target acquisition was compromised by your flailing about." He ignored the criticism. "How do I take off the lock?" Ann-One turned her silvery posterior to him, pulling back the collar of the vest she used for pockets. An access panel popped open. "Press the red button three times." He did so. "Let's go. Don't kill anyone unless I tell you to." "Acknowledged." They exited the shuttle. Bokara stared around. Sol was up, though it was still cool under the bright-blue sky. All around stood garish signs, no less eye-hurting in daylight. His translation program rendered the writings, flashing them onto the inside of his eyes. It didn't mean much to him: "ATM in Building", "Easy Terms", "Inventory Reduction on the Red Dot". In the distance, over the hoods of decayed aircars, he saw a line of glassed windows. Greeter bowed once and gestured, starting toward the glassed windows. They quickly caught up to the insect. Despite the trot, Ann-One's feet made no more sound than did his. Of course, he thought, a combat robot would be able to sneak up on things. They followed Greeter through the automatic doors and into the planet building's immense, erratically lit interior. At least it was cooler inside. "Is it all like this?" asked Bokara, looking down an aisle with shelves on both sides that seemed to recede to infinity. "The whole planet is just one big store?" Greeter looked at them. "Sure. Well, there are some ancient inventories and cash receipts suggesting that at one time there were multiple Marts; the Wal, the Pets, the K, the Stein, maybe a few others. There was also something called Government. The Marts seem to have bought it out and closed it down. When they all kind of ran into each other, there came the Great Merger and EarthMart was born." "A planet-sized store," he muttered. "To tell the truth," continued Greeter, "there's a lot of interest in the old Marts these last few years, kind of a fundamentalist revival. Some folks believe the reason all the customers left was because we Mart personnel departed the true 'way of sales'. They say we could never be found, didn't know anything about what we sold, had the same stuff in every sub-store, things like that. They want to resurrect the old labels and signs. Wouldn't be so bad, except for the occasional sacrifice of an unlucky store clerk by fundamentalists. The Order of the Blue Light Special though, they are the worst." Greeter prattled on, pointing to sale items and specials on the dusty shelves. Bokara was awestruck by the amount and variety of what he could only regard as historical artifacts. Thousands of boxes lined the shelves, with labels hinting at the treasures within. They walked on and on, eventually coming to a group of smaller cockroaches swarming over the shelves, taking boxes labeled 'tampons' from the top and placing them on the bottom, while others took identical boxes from the bottom shelves and put them on top. They stopped what they were doing to cluster around a nervous Bokara and a watchful Ann-One. "Restocking crew," explained Greeter, "not the deep end of the gene pool. We try to keep them away from customers, not that it's been a problem in the last five-thousand years. "Back, back," cried Greeter, as the others swarmed near. "Don't annoy the customers. We are off to see the Store Manager." The insects backed away, bowing as they did so. "Kids," said Greeter, "dumb as rocks, but we don't even have to pay them minimum wage." They cut through several other aisles to find an open area under some brilliant arc lights, about half of which were working. Monorail cars stood parked nearby. Greeter checked several till he found one working. Reluctantly, Bokara piled in, with Ann-One behind him. Greeter started the car. It accelerated, whipping down the railway at a surprising speed, blurring the interior of the store's departments and aisles. "EarthMart offers all the latest conveniences," boasted Greeter. "Now, I hate to mention this to customers," confided Greeter, "but there is an occasional, teensy bit of interdepartmental rivalry going on at EarthMart. You see, the last customer who came through here was an Arcturian. Boy, what a hard sell he was! Insisted we didn't have anything he wanted. Kind of ill-tempered, too. He kept vaporizing employees. Everybody tried to sell him something. Finally, he broke down and bought a back-scratcher from a cockroach, a direct ancestor of mine. That was quite a coup, seeing as he didn't have a back. "Naturally, the other species, the rats and pigeons, were kind of upset. Course, we cockroaches are natural salesmen. Ever since then, we've had the cream of the positions at EarthMart. Unfortunately it's led to some professional jealously." Suddenly their cart slowed. "Uh-oh," said Greeter, "I think I should have gone through Women's Underwear." "What's wrong?" asked Bokara, hand on his stunner. "Well," said Greeter, his body twisting as he tried to look in several directions at once, "I think I took us too close to Fishing and Camping." The car pulled off onto a sidetrack and stopped. The shelves were full of fishing poles, cooking gear, sleeping bags, and such. It was also full of rats, big ones, the size of a human. They wore blazing orange vests and hats with camouflage pants. Some seemed to be carrying weapons. "Now, listen," called Greeter, crouched down in the front seat. "We ain't looking for trouble. These here are customers. I'm taking them to the Store Manager." "Button it, roach," snapped a particularly large rat. He wore the blaze vest and hat, with the addition of a set of rubber-looking pants that went to his chest. "Nothing goes on in EarthMart that we rats don't know about. Just like you roaches, trying to hijack the first customers in millennia." "Greetings, customer," said the rat, turning to Bokara. "I'm sure this squishy bug has been filling your ears with all sorts of lies. We rats are delighted to see you. We can fulfill your every need for the outdoors." "You don't have an outdoors," said Bokara. This seemed to throw the rat. "Well... what about a firearm?" asked the desperate rat. "A what?" asked Bokara, looking anxiously at his own arms. One of the rats leveled a wood and metal tube at a display of lamps. Its fingers worked the weapon. It gave an ear-splitting crack, and a bunch of lamps shattered. Bokara yelped and ducked. Ann-One jerked upright, her arms pointed at the rats. "Hey," said the leader of the pack, staring at Ann-One. "Did you guys stop in the Toy Department?" "No," said Bokara. "She's with me. She's a customer too." "Confirmed," said Ann-One. "Oh, boy," smiled the rat. "How about a camouflage nightie for the little lady?" A loud whooping sound made them all jump. "No," screamed a rat, "Blue Light Special!" Bokara spun in his seat. From across the open floor of Occasional Furniture came a horde of rats and roaches. Each bore on its back a vertical pole, atop which pulsed a circular blue light, below that sat a speaker, emitting the dreadful whooping. The creatures shrieked, "The K, The K, only The K!" as they charged. Blaze-clad rats fell back from the cart in confusion. A shower of brilliant objects flew from the hands of the Blue Light Fundamentalists. "Coleman lantern attack!" yelled the lead rat. "Jeez, our own damn merchandise." Ann-One threw herself on Bokara, pinning him down. Bullets banged off her body, a lantern bounced off her back. She rose and laser fire licked out of her fingers. Fundamentalists and salesrats fled. More guns banged, speaker's whooped, lights flashed. "We've got to get out here," he screamed to Greeter. "This way," gestured the roach, dropping to all six for more speed. Bokara stunned a rat clutching at his sleeve and hopped out of the cart, following Greeter. Ann-One trailed, still firing and beginning to slow as heat built up in her. "Ann-One, cease-fire," yelled Bokara, unwilling to leave his metallic companion behind. "Engage only enemy personnel chasing us." They raced away, through acres of Home and Garden, toward Mens Furnishings. Ann-One began slowing again, heat building up from the run. "Sir," said Ann-One, "I am overheating. My coolant pack is nearly empty. I need lubrication." "What?" said Bokara. "Wasn't it full?" "Last filled during regular maintenance, before I was surplused. I have not had regular maintenance since." "Oh," groaned Bokara, "hundreds of years ago. I really should have read your manual." "An attentive owner would have," said Ann-One, with an air of deep disappointment. "I'm sorry," said Bokara. "We could stop in Automotive," offered Greeter, "but it's on the other side of Haberdashery. We don't want to go there." "We have to," said Bokara. "Ann-One needs help." "Okay, sir," said Greeter, with an air of resignation. They made their way into the racks of suits and coats, dust billowing up as they bumped into them. Bokara sneezed several times. Greeter waved his upper limbs trying to shush him. "Quiet," hissed the roach, "you don't want the tailors to-" A mass of white stuff flopped right onto Greeter's head. He made several disgusted sounds. "Oh, dreadfully sorry," said a prissy-sounding voice from above. They looked up to see an impeccably dressed pigeon of about sixty pounds or so, sitting atop the highest stack of shelves. "You did that on purpose," howled Greeter. He pulled a set of pants off the shelf to wipe his head. "You no-good bug," shrilled the pigeon, flapping in aggravation. "That's Italian silk. You're going to get an interdepartmental charge-off for that." "Charge this," yelled Greeter, pointing at his lower rear. The pigeon squawked in outrage. "Boys, get that bug spray we got out of House and Garden." "No!" cried Greeter. Bokara snapped off a shot. The avian haberdasher plummeted into a pile of sweaters with a thump. Flapping and cooing, a flock of pigeons burst over a rack of sports coats. Each brandished a weapon, razor-sharp measuring tapes, garrotes of plastic thread, or foot-long needles. "Ann," shouted Bokara, turning to fire, "take them out." The trusty HCR spun and began skeeting tailors out of the air. Steam rose from Ann-One's hair as she quickly overheated. Stunned and barbecued pigeons crashed into racks. Survivors fled. "Thank you, sir," said a fervent Greeter. "Bug spray's been outlawed in interdepartmental warfare for a thousand years. It would have been the end for me, for sure." "No problem," said Bokara, hands shaking as he holstered the stunner. "Is it much further to the manager's office?" "Not much," said Greeter, "the other side of Automotive." Free of the tailors, they made their way to Automotive. "Boy, oh boy," said Greeter, "us cockroaches do it again. This counts as a sale," he said, handing Ann-One both anti-freeze and lubricant. "Not optimal," said Ann-One, examining the material. Her metallic face was incapable of expression, but Bokara sensed disdain. "Uh, Greeter," said Bokara, "I think I left my wallet back in the shuttle." "No problem, sir," replied Greeter, "we'll run you up a store credit card. Ten percent off on all purchases." "Thanks," said Bokara. "Ann is my ticket home," he said, patting her silvery posterior. "May I remind you," said Ann-One, "I'm not that type of robot." "Oh, come on Ann," he kidded. "It must have felt good to be in the thick of things again, lasers blazing, enemies falling all around you. Don't say I don't know how to show a girl a good time." "I'm a robot," responded Ann-One, "not a girl. I feel no such emotions." "Come on," he said, "you were smiling back there in Mens Furnishings." "Sir," protested Ann, "I don't have any lips." "Pity about that," he sighed. "Of course," added Ann-One, "if we were to survive and you were to buy me, I could be upgraded to multi-functionality." "Ann," he replied fervently, "get me back to the shuttle after this, skin intact, and you have a deal." "No need to return to the shuttle," replied Ann-One, "with a known destination, I can remote pilot the shuttle to our location." "Can you cook?" he asked. "I think I want to marry you." "I've noted," replied Ann-One archly, "that the loyalty of humans, particularly males, seems to evaporate when a newer model with a better CPU or additional RAM comes along. Dangle a few enhancements in front of a human male and he's gone, you're obsolete and on a tramp freighter." "Computers," sighed Bokara, "always making you pay for the last user. Ann, I'm sincere." "We'll see," replied the robot, finishing her self-repairs. "If you are ready to go," said Greeter, "there's a slidewalk through neutral territory in the Toy Department. It should get us to the manager's office." They followed Greeter to the slidewalk and stepped on carefully. It whisked them though a long series of hallways. The store's character began to change. It became cleaner, better lit, and more ordered. "Management country," said Greeter, rubbing his antennae in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. "Don't come here real often, no sireee, not very healthy for a worker. "Okay, here's where we get off," Greeter said. They exited the slidewalk and walked on plush carpet toward what looked like offices. "Looks like word may have gotten out that we were coming," said Greeter, looking around at a series of empty desks. They reached a wood and brass door; on it were the words Store Manager. "Okay, folks," said Greeter, shaking slightly, "if you don't mind, I'm going to wait out here. Doesn't do for a worker to call management's attention to himself." "Thank you, Greeter," said Bokara, closing a hand on his stunner. "Ann, let's go." They opened the door and Bokara looked in. "Come in," called a voice. Bokara walked in with Ann-One on his heels. A weird sense of deja vu struck him. The office was immense. The desk of similar scale faced him, completely devoid of anything that looked like work. With a frisson of fear, he realized he was not only in the presence of Management, but Senior Management. Behind the desk sat a large ornate leather chair, its back to them. Slowly it began to swing around to reveal its occupant, a tabby housecat the size of a small tiger. "Meow," it said. "Uh," said Bokara, at a loss. "Just kidding," added the cat. "I've always wanted to do that." "Welcome to EarthMart," it added, though the yellow eyes held no friendliness. "My name is Bob. I'm EarthMart's Senior Store Manager." "History-Technician Tars Bokara, from the Medakala Museum of Antiquities. I've been sent to locate Old Earth and study her history." "So," said Bob, bitterness evident, "humans have finally remembered us. Disappeared to the stars, you did. Took the damn dogs with you. Left us cats, as always, to mind the house." "What?" said Bokara. "Who was it who made the world into one big house? Let the rats, roaches, and pigeons in? If it wasn't for us, the whole place would be in chaos, a ruin." "Thank you," said Bokara, eyeing the claws flashing in and out of Bob's dinner-plate-size pads. "What did we cats get for this? You didn't even leave us any decent trees for scratching. You even paved over half the oceans. Nice job, humans." Bob's tail swished. He leaned forward in his chair, rising as if he might leap. "Hey," said Bokara, "I had nothing to do with it." Ann-One moved up to his side, palm blades extended in imitation of the agitated cat's claws. "Cats aren't bugs, rats, or brainless pigeons," hissed Bob, glaring at Ann-One. "We tried to organize when you left, build a society. What did you leave for us as a model? EarthMart. So we kept it going through the centuries. Imagine, running a store without customers for millennia. The pointlessness, the ennui of it. That's what you condemned us to. "So," growled Bob, "humans are back and I've fulfilled the dream of my ancestors by telling you off. All right human, what now? What do you want to do?" "Buy out the store," replied Bokara, sitting down, settling back in his chair, and placing his feet up on Bob's desk. "Meow?" said Bob, shocked out of his outrage and the power of speech. "You've got a planetful of historical artifacts," said Bokara, intent and inspired, "I've got a planetful of museums. If I return and just make a report, this place will be looted like the Antarean Pyramids. You'll get nothing. Make me your exclusive agent for the removal of antiquities and I will put EarthMart in the black like it's never been." "You guys haven't changed a bit," said Bob, disgust and curiosity warring in his feline face. "Think of it," said Bokara, "I can put you on the map. You'll be up to your whiskers in milk-" "Milk," interrupted Bob, eyes wide. "Did I say milk?" continued Bokara seductively. "I meant cream." "Cream," repeated Bob, his eyes closing in imagined ecstasy. "There's more," said Bokara. "Tell me, tell me," cried Bob. "Catnip," said Bokara. Bob purred like a hovercar engine. "Okay," he said, "you've got a deal." Bokara smiled and extended a hand, "Shake on it." "Actually," said Bob, "could you scratch behind my ears instead?". * * * * * Tars Bokara sat in his office atop the main tower of Museum Prime, looking out an immense window at a beautiful day. Clouds scudded across a rose-colored sky, driven by stiff, fall breezes. He rested his feet on an immense desk, devoid of any work. A chime sounded, demanding his attention. He waved an indolent hand over a control. The door slid open. Outside sat his staff, busy at their desks. At the closest desk was a giant cockroach. Greeter waved an antenna at Bokara. A beautiful woman strode in through the open door. Night-black hair cascaded down her shapely shoulders to her waist. At least at first glance, it looked like a beautiful woman. Ann-One's combat chassis and CPU had every upgrade known and a few made just for her. She had lips now, full and sensuous, like her figure. Her artificial skin glowed with health. Her eyes were a cool jade-green. "Here are the latest reports on the sales of artifacts through the galactic arm," she said. "We even have requests from the Imperial Museum on Gal-Central itself." "Excellent, Ann, excellent. How's the old chassis today?" "Guess you'll have to wait until tonight to find out," she replied, "that is, if you're good." He laughed. "Anything else?" "Yes," she replied. "Dr. Poundstone just sent in his report on the history of the odiferous slug-warts of Benecia-Seven. He says they don't have one." "Tell him to keep at it," replied Bokara, "a little more digging and I'm sure he'll come up with something. As I always say, field work makes the historian." His holo-monitor bleeped with an incoming hyperlight call. He thumbed the button and an image appeared over his desk. "Hey, Tars," said Bob, "got the figures on the latest freighter load ready." "Bob," said Bokara, "how's my favorite manager?" "Dining on cream and catnip, just like you promised." "How's Earth Mart?" Bob grinned his biggest Cheshire grin, "Open twenty-four hours." Story copyright 2001 by Edward McKeown ed_mckeown@rsausa.com or schellykeefer@aol.com ------------------------------ CH013 Planet Circus by C.C. Parker On Planet Circus: Hermaphrodite bears lounged in courtyards while quadriplegic midgets rolled through streets. But from space, Planet Circus was little more then a sickly looking, pinkish dot lodged in the darkness, an inconsequential imperfection in the universal skein. It was just as easy to overlook as it might be to miss a single yellow blade of grass in a vast field of green. Still, he discovered it . . . Captain Willard and his boat full of cronies. * * * * * They had left Earth long ago, and now it was too late. They had been drifting for too long. Nobody counted days, but it might have been years, and the darkness kept swallowing them . . . kept sucking them in -- deeper, and deeper still; there was no end to it. And then Captain Willard saw it: the pinkish dot, like a light drop of blood floating in tar. For a long time he couldn't believe it was there at all, and for all he knew it wasn't. When you've been floating in space for what might have been years, this was to be expected. Willard, consulting with his shipmates, realized that he wasn't seeing things. "It could be anything," said Beales, the Captain's right-hand man. "Yes, but it could be . . . something," said Willard. "But it's beyond the known universe," said another. "So even if it is inhabited, we won't know what it is until we get there." "Could be something terrible," said Burke, the ship's mechanic. "Or beautiful," said Willard. "Besides, it's better than what we have here. Even if death awaits, it's worth the sacrifice. We're going to die out here before too long, anyway. What do we have to lose?" They were silent because they all knew that Willard was right. They didn't have anything to lose, and soon they would all be dead. Supplies were running low, and the fuel was long gone. They were floating, floating, into the nether regions of space, and their minds. Many of them felt that they were going insane, and others had already gone there. No, they didn't have anything to lose. And they drifted further, deeper, into that darkness. * * * * * When the spacemen arrived on Planet Circus, nearly every freak and clown relied on the notion that these men were Gods. When you're living mad with great, colorful leaps and lion roars . . . when you have reveled in the aromas of circus sweat and animal dung for so long.... The spacemen came out of the darkness -- that rolling vast, night . . . and they came because they had nowhere else to go. They came with dumbfounded looks and expressions that reflected the end of the universe. They brought with them frightening tales of wars; of suffering and pain. They talked of space exploration and man's insatiable need to discover countries outside of his physical, and mental, jurisdiction. They talked of life; and death. Captain Willard looked out across the tapestry of their faces. It was like a Grateful Dead concert times a thousand, he thought, remembering the days of his youth. He had never seen so many freaks, misfits, abnormalities, even in his craziest, most fucked-up dreams. "It's like an ocean," said Beales. "An ocean of freaks." * * * * * The council of Planet Circus sat the Earthmen down and tried to figure out why it was they had even bothered. "If we hadn't landed here," explained Willard. "We would have perished." "I don't know what's worse," one of them joked. "I don't understand." "Can't you see that everyone here has gone insane. We used to be normal, like yourselves, but something happened. There was a great period of strife on the planet, and the struggle therein began to alter people's perception of who they were. Reality was shattered." "Strife?" "War. Famine. Millions of people killed." "Sounds familiar," said Burke. "I don't understand," said one of the councilmen. "The wars of Earth are known throughout the universe, at least the known universe. Bouts of violence beyond reckoning. Screams from the abyss." "Yes," said the same councilman. "But if you destroy yourselves, it will be known. If we destroy ourselves it will be like someone's uncomfortable dream." "What does it matter, either way?" said Willard. "You can see what it has done to us," said a councilman with a pair of dice lodged in his eye sockets. Both die were ones. "It's mutated us, and made us insane. I liked to gamble before all this . . . Doesn't that mean anything to you?" * * * * * "Beales," said the Captain. "I wonder what's beyond Planet Circus?" Captain Willard was unsure whether he'd gone crazy, or whether he simply started expecting less of himself. Even his crew, cavorting with these Morlocks of the universe, these freaks of God and nature. He was frightened that he was going to lose himself completely, which might have been a good indication that he was not crazy after all. "Are you crazy?" said Beales, which did not help to deter the good captain's descent. "I just think we could go further . . . find ourselves once again." "Find ourselves?" "Beales," whispered the Captain. "Our very essence has been suffused. And soon . . . soon we'll begin to change . . . and not just mentally . . . physically. We'll be freaks," he said. "Like them." Beales didn't say it, but he didn't think that was such a terrible idea. After all, this was after madness . . . not before it. Story copyright 2001 by C.C. Parker Nazoch3@aol.com ------------------------------ CH014 Sergeant Stone: Hard to Forget by Hathno Paige I wait in the Burgerland parking lot wondering what he'll pull up in, hoping for a classic like the yellow, six-wheel ATV and not some chichi rocket-bike. The roar of a giant weed-eater fills my ears. I look up. A man dangles in the air overhead, his shining jack-booted feet just inches from my nose. It's Sergeant Stone wearing his pack-copter, the one he rode to fame in, the one that I imitated in my backyard, running around flapping my arms and fluttering my lips. He drops into the parking spot next to mine, smiling at me in his mirrored shades and camouflage fatigues while the rotor winds down. "Wasn't even sure I could still fly the damn thing." He struggles out of the shoulder harness and puts out a hand. "I'm Stone, you must be Hathno." I take it, pretending not to notice the lack of fingers. I wonder if I'll put this detail into the article. We start toward the Burgerland entrance. The Sergeant moves slowly, wincing with each step. I feel shaky myself, still in disbelief that I'm in his presence. I've interviewed action figures for Hardman Magazine before, but it's never been like this, never had the sheer power of the moment, the feeling of getting to the core, the root, that from which all others have sprung -- Sergeant Stone, the first "Real American Hero". I reach the door first and pull it open, feeling the comforting wave of warm, beef-scented air wash over me. Stone goes to the gleaming steel counter and orders coffee and a country-style soy-burger from the boy behind the register. I don't know which I'm more shocked by -- the soy-burger or the fact that the boy doesn't seem to recognize him. I get a titan-beef combo, and follow the Sergeant to a booth by the windows overlooking the bay. He smoothes the soy-burger's paper wrapping into a neat sheet on his tray, weighting one wayward corner with the lid from his coffee cup. I ask him if he's ready. He nods, and I take out my weapon -- a small, silver recorder -- and turn it on. "To start, I just want to say thanks for agreeing to speak with us at Hardman, Sergeant. I know you normally don't give interviews, and I consider this a great honor." "My pleasure. And call me Stone." "Let's start by talking about the Sixties and Seventies, the golden years for you." He half-smiles, and the beige scar on his cheek folds into a dimple. "Well, that was my, quote, heyday if there is one for figures like me. America was in a war it didn't want, and it was my job to give the military a positive face, like it was an adventure or some other bullshit." I sit bolt upright. He takes a sip of coffee, swallows a bite of burger and continues. "You were just a kid then, so you probably don't know this, but I never even went to Viet Nam, let alone fought." "But-" "I didn't even have an official 'enemy' back then. I just spent my time skiing, scuba diving, flying, going into space, that kind of thing. All basically an excuse to play dress-ups in action gear." "Sure, I understand that you weren't a 'real' soldier, but it was still pretty rough for you, wasn't it?" He swirls his coffee with the plastic stirrer. I notice then that his left ear is missing, and that the left side of his head is somehow flatter than the right side, like it was ground against something. "I'm from that era when men didn't talk about their injuries, but what was done to me in the course of duty..." The corners of his mouth curl down and open the splits in his lips. "I've been shot by and out of every weapon known to man. I've had nails driven through me, explosives crammed into orifices I didn't know I had. I've been chewed, mowed, frozen, and drowned. And I won't even get into the experimental surgery." This is better. This what I came for. "And how did you cope with all that pain? How did you stay hard?" For a second he looks almost annoyed. Then he laughs and shakes his head. "How did I stay hard? Oh lord. There was a time when?" He picks up his soy-burger. "Sorry son, this is my first interview in a long time. A real long time." He takes a bite, and chews it methodically before swallowing. "How did I deal with the pain? I'll tell ya'. I just took it. For a long time. All through the Seventies, whatever they threw at me, I just took it. I was America's hero, right? I figured it came with the territory. But when the Eighties hit, when the things that were going on just didn't make sense to me anymore, I started having trouble." "What do you mean?" "Well my life changed then. I was into about eighty different action roles, mostly to do with anti-terrorist ops. And the country was into Grenada, Panama, the drug war, that whole load of Reagan-era crap." "Crap? But that must have been a great time for you. You even had a TV show going." He looks out the window. Is that a tear welling in the eye not covered by a patch? "Great, huh? Fact is, I cracked. Wound up in an institution feeling three inches tall." I don't want to know this. "Scary thing was that they initially diagnosed me as schizophrenic. But then they figured out that it wasn't me who was fractured, just my life." I don't want to know this at all. "Maybe this isn't the best-" I reach for the recorder to shut it off. He blocks my hand. "It's okay." He's smiling now. It's not a crazy grin, but more of a knowing grandfatherly look. I remind myself of who I'm with, and settle back in my seat. Maybe it's just time for a different tack. "But what about the good times? I've heard you threw some wild parties in the Seventies." He pulls off his jungle hat, revealing a hairless, dented skull. "There were some good times. My best friends back then were Big Jack and Action Maxton. But all the action figures, even the freaks like Motorcycle Mike, we all R+R'd together." "Where did you have the parties?" "Usually at my headquarters. We used Action Maxton's jungle-house once in a while, but the ceilings were real low and it had all these weird booby traps. Speaking of which, you want to hear a funny story?" I nod. "One time we're all out on the jungle-house's front porch sucking down Big Jack's pina coladas when Motorcycle Mike pulls up. Now Mike's hot off his latest world-record jump over -- I don't know -- fifty fish bowls of piranhas or something, and Maxton -- whose own popularity is fizzling -- leans over the railing and shouts, 'Hey Mr. Hot-shit trick rider. Bet you can't ride that thing up into my house.' Well, Mike he's got this short-man thing going, and there's no way he's gonna turn down a dare like that. So he gets back on the bike and cranks up the motor." Stone pauses for a sip of coffee. I'm on the edge of my seat. The action-parties are the stuff of legends, but all anyone has ever heard before are unconfirmed rumors. "So Mike takes off and makes it right up the steps, no problem. And as we all turn to look for him inside, we hear this huge crash followed by Mike swearing a blue streak! So we rush in, and there's this big square hole in the floor. And Maxton, Maxton's down on the floor laughing. I'm trying to figure out what's going when Big Jack hits me in the arm and says, 'That little bastard. He activated the secret fall-away floor!'" Stone's laughing so hard that he stops talking, and I can barely keep myself upright in the tiny Burgerland seat. "Oh I shouldn't laugh too much. Poor old Mike was lying down in there with a broken leg. Took us about an hour to get him out, then I had to chopper him to the hospital, but-" Stone erupts again with laughter. He seems in good spirits, and since we're on the parties, I decide to go for it. "And it was also one of these parties where you met Emerald, right?" He makes an exaggerated look at the big black dive watch on his wrist. "Wow, I think we made it a whole ten minutes before getting on her." "Sorry. It's just something we're all interested in." He tilts his head back and the skin of his neck pulls into tight creases stretching away from the scar that encircles his throat. "Hell, I guess I don't mind anymore. Emerald. You know she was Nurse Emerald when she started? Not even really an 'action' figure. Now she does everything from beauty queen to Navy SEAL, but back then, she was just 'nurse' and the only gear she had was a big needle." "And you two-" "It's true, she was an important part of my life for a time. There was always this intense public pressure on us to get together, mostly I think because we're the same height. But it didn't last long." "But people talk about seeing your Jeep outside the Every Girl's Dream Condo on many an occasion." "Yea, they made a big fuss about that. But it wasn't that many times. Actually, I hated that place. Elevator never worked and there was no privacy." "And what about Dr. William? Didn't he get angry? Or was he just afraid to take on the Sergeant?" "Billy? Billy could give a rat's -- well, he and Emerald were really just a PR thing from the get go. Their makers, right, they're having a drink and they say, 'Hey, Dr. William plus Nurse Emerald, match made in heaven, we can even do the whole wedding-gear thing.' Of course everyone knows Billy's queerer than a three-dollar bill. But they figured they could fool the public -- which they could -- but they couldn't fool Billy." "What do you mean?" "You know how Emerald and I met? Her and Billy showed up at one of my parties in her Corvette wearing these cowboy outfits. Anyhow, I start talking to Em, and Billy starts slamming tequila with Big Jack and some green army men. Next thing I know, Billy's dancing on a table wearing nothing but leather chaps with his ass and his unit hanging out. Then they're all off to Big Jack's van to do their thing." "No. No! I mean everyone thought maybe Dr. William, but Big Jack was gay? And the green army men? No." "You ever see any green army women? What'd you think they did in their free time? And what's the big deal? Half the action figures are queens. Look at the life, look at the outfits." "So what ever happened to Big Jack? I haven't heard about him in years." "Jack was my best friend. He was the only one who was there for me when I fell apart, and I'll always love the guy for that. But he had such low self-esteem that he'd give himself to anyone that showed him attention." I notice a pale, half-moon scar decorating the top of his forehead. "I think it was not having any kind of purpose. I mean he had some gear, he had the muscles, he even had that steel armband trick, but it wasn't enough." He looks out over the bay again. "Big Jack died in 1988. I've still got his van. Sometimes I take out the portable campfire sit by it thinking about him." Another topic I do not want to linger on. "Okay, but let's get back to Emerald. Any hope for a future?" "Emerald, Emerald, Emerald. I should have realized the real reason you wanted to interview me was to get dirt on her." "No, that's not--" "Let's get one thing clear. You think she's an all-bust, no-brain airhead, right? Well she's not. She's a shark, and she chewed what she wanted out of me and she's gone now. Sorry, don't quote me on that. We're still friends. We talk now and then, but she's still in the game and I'm not." He shrugs. "I don't know where she gets the energy, but she's the queen of reinvention. Me and the other guys, we're one-trick ponies. And when our time is up, it's up." "But doesn't America -- doesn't the world -- still need heroes?" He laughs, hard this time, and it sounds like broken metal is rattling in his chest. "What for? Pretty gear and washboard abs gonna feed the poor and stop global warming?" "But that's not what heroes do." "And why the hell not? That's a lot more important than grab-ass games with big, stiff guns." He scratches the vacant ear space on his head. "When I was in that hospital I did a lot of thinking. And I realized that most of my life was bullshit. The whole image I had, it just wasn't real and it wasn't helping the world at all. It made me anti-everything about me for a while. I shut the headquarters, mothballed the gear, even stopped wearing the fatigues." "But after a while I realized, 'Hey, I'm an action figure, it's what I do.' And I'd like to think that in my own way I helped some people, maybe through a little escapist fantasy, or maybe by letting them vent frustration on me. Maybe I even saved some other people from being hurt that way." I fumble through my list of questions trying to find some way to end the interview on a positive note. "So, what's next for you?" He rubs his shoulder. It's hanging from the socket, like it's held in place with a loose piece of string. "There are a lot of action figures out there in the same boat I was, and most of them -- especially the robots and human-animal hybrids -- lack the emotional capacity to deal with it. So I'm trying to be there for them. To listen, give advice. Sometimes I tell the groups that the Sergeant is fighting a new battle, but shooting words instead of bullets." He leans back in the booth and finishes off his coffee. "You got enough?" I'm not sure what I've got, but I nod anyway. He stands and offers me the fingerless hand again. I stare at it, then catch myself and take it. "You're probably wondering why I don't get myself fixed." I nod. "It's too damn easy to forget things in this country." He turns and limps away. * * * * * I shut off the recorder and look out over the bay. My editor will like the new dirt on Dr. William, but I can forget publishing anything else from the interview in Hardman Magazine. And there's a part of me that's frowning, agreeing with my editor, thinking that this interview is just another chisel point chipping away at the beautiful American dream. But there's another part of me that's smiling, remembering the lonely, friendless afternoon when my twelve-year old self coped with his pain by soaking Sergeant Stone in gasoline and setting him alight. And that part of me is sorry that he just missed his chance to say, "Thank you, Sergeant." Story copyright 2001 by Hathno Paige hathno@hotmail.com Thanks to James Patrick Kelly for the title. http://www.jimkelly.net/ ------------------------------ CH015 Slip-stream by Glenn H. Morris "Engines are charged and functional," Commander Sloan said. "Check is completed, Commander. Slip-stream is go, fire at your mark, and resume contact from Mars orbit," Ground Control responded. Sloan pulled out a picture of his wife and son. Smiling, he put the picture on the console. "That's a go, Ground Control. Firing slip-stream engines in three, two, one..., engines firing." A blinding light engulfed the ship; Sloan soon felt a feeling of severe vertigo. Darkness invaded his vision as he slowly lost consciousness. * * * * * Four weeks later -- Ground Control Detainment Center "He's a good man, not a man to crack up," General Clark said to the physician as they peered through a small, one-way window into Sloan's containment quarters. "I'm afraid I have to disagree with you, General. Normal men don't talk about families that never existed," the physician replied. "What about the picture?" the General said, keeping his eyes on Sloan. "As you are aware, General, we have tracked down the woman, and she has never met the Commander; the boy we have yet to find." "Then how do you explain all three in the same picture?" "We can't as of now... computer-enhanced, maybe. Imaging will identify this as a hoax soon enough." The General's assistant approached. "General, our 3 o'clock meeting is about to start." "OK, let's hope I get some real answers." The three turned and walked away. Inside the containment room, a solitary figure sat, staring at a small picture in his hand. * * * * * The General entered the meeting room and barked at the assembled scientists: "Tell me what's going on, and it better be good." A man in a lab coat stood up. "Sir, the slip-stream engines were designed to fold space. We don't know for certain what caused the unexpected results, but we think the engines may have caused a tear in space. The Commander Sloan that came back may not be our Commander Sloan." "Not ours?" the General responded, as he glared at the scientist. "You'd better explain that a bit better." "We're considering a parallel-world theory as most likely, although of course there could be other possibilities. Sir, this is indeed Commander Sloan, but he is not the same man that left on Infinity One. This Commander has a different past, a different history." The man in the lab coat sat down again, uncomfortably. "Well, what do we do about it?" the General said forcibly, continuing to stare at the scientist. "We could try to send him back, but there are risks." "Which are?" the General asked. "We see four likely scenarios. One, the engines work as originally planned and the Commander ends up in Mars orbit. Two, he may end up in another alternate or parallel universe. Three, he may go back to where he came from." "What about the fourth?" the General asked. "Some of our scenarios suggest he may not survive another trip. Our doctors have uncovered some cellular damage. Not much, but some. Another trip could kill him." "Give me your best guess on what would happen," the General said. The scientist replied, after glancing at his colleagues, "We think we can offer some protection from cellular damage, give him the chance to go home to his family. We could learn what we can about his world and then send him back; anyway, if we don't, then our Commander Sloan probably will be lost forever." * * * * * Three Weeks Later -- Earth Orbit Commander Sloan looked at the picture on the console and smiled. He then pressed the voicecom on his suit. "Thank you, General. Your Commander Sloan is lucky to have a friend like you." "You just go back to your family. It was a pleasure knowing you," the General's voice replied. "Engaging countdown," Sloan said nervously. A bright light surrounded the ship and darkness again engulfed Commander Sloan as he drifted into unconsciousness. * * * * * The ship was slowly moving through orbit as Sloan's senses gradually came back. Checking the instruments and running diagnostics showed that the ship was in one piece and operating under normal parameters. A reflection caught his eye, as Sloan looked up and saw that the beautiful Earth was right where it was supposed to be. "Re-entry course engaged, time to head home," he said. "Ground Control, this is Commander Sloan, asking for re-entry course confirmation." The only reply was radio static. Sloan began to panic; sweat ran down his face. "Radio's probably not working," he said, forcing himself to calm down. He checked the scanner and punched in the predetermined landing coordinates. "There you are. Beautiful Cape Canaveral in sunny Florida," he said, a smile growing on his face. "Coordinates in, touchdown in ten minutes." During re-entry, Sloan watched as the flames from atmospheric friction encircled the ship, then started to fade. As his ship broke through the thick cloud cover, an alarm went off and the word ALERT kept flashing on his instrument panel. "What the hell, radiation levels are that high? What is going on?" he said as he examined the instruments trying to find a malfunction. All instruments were operating correctly. As the clouds finally dissipated, Sloan stared in amazement at the view screen showing Cape Canaveral. "It hasn't looked that way in sixty years!" He quickly remembered his training for the Slip-Stream Project -- time travel had been mentioned as a possible side-effect of using the slip-stream engines, though an unlikely one. Trying to control his anxiety, Sloan looked for a possible landing site. Seeing that there weren't any within scanner range, he decided to make an emergency landing on a nearby highway, since his ship carried little extra fuel. Checking the instruments, which still showed high levels of radiation, Sloan slipped on his spacesuit. It would give him some protection, at least until the air supply ran out. The landing went smoothly, and Sloan began to monitor all radio and television bands for any information. "No video signals?" he said, astonished. A thought occurred to him, and he decided to check for short-wave signals. "Finally, at least somebody's alive on this planet." The talk on the short-wave radio was odd, mostly people with Australian or New Zealand accents chattering mindlessly about food supplies. After fifteen minutes of listening, he decided to leave the ship. He picked up the picture of his wife and son and put it in an inner pocket. As he descended the stairs, he pressed an air monitor on his sleeve, which showed radiation levels far above normal. Over time, he realized, being exposed to this environment would cause serious illness. As he began walking down the deserted highway, he noticed the bones of birds and other animals on the road surface and along both shoulders of the road. Clearly, they had been dead for quite awhile. He walked for almost a mile before coming across a small souvenir store. It was deserted, and he searched inside until he found what he wanted, a newspaper. Stunned, he read the headlines on the crumbling newspaper, which was nearly brown with age. "I didn't go back in time." His hands shook. "The world just stopped long ago." He now recalled what the scientists had told him about how there could be an infinite number of worlds, all taking up nearly the same location yet unaware of one another. Apparently, he had entered a world that had never been given a chance to see its future. * * * * * He still held the newspaper in his hand as he stood outside the souvenir store. The paper was dated October 22, 1962. In this world, America and the former Soviet Union had never settled their differences. "Time to go home," Sloan said, pulling off his helmet. He began to walk in the direction of where his house, not far from the Cape, would be in his own world -- a world very similar to this one, except that Sloan's world had lived to see its future. Story copyright 2001 by Glenn H. Morris glennhmorris@yahoo.com ------------------------------ CH016 The Taboos of Tattoos by Ed Lynskey Miss Grinderswitch, principal at the Montross Reformatory School for Boys, had insisted that tattoos were a filthy abomination fit only for sailors, pugilists, and bartenders. No self-respecting gentleman, what all the boys aspired to become someday, would sport a lurid mermaid or fire-breathing bull on his forearm. Though sophisticated in mien, Miss Grinderswitch was a sadistic woman used to enforcing her say with the steel yardstick she brandished for cracking young and impressionable skulls and knuckles. Mr. Weaver, the janitor who on the sly once referred to Miss Grinderswitch as "the harridan", every morning rolled up his sleeves before mopping the corridor to unveil a black rose tattoo. Glowering, she'd make him unroll his sleeves. This same contest of wills had gone on for years. No boy at Montross was more smitten by tattoos than was Isaac Clay. Small for his age, he was equipped with big, round glasses and a pigeon-toed walk the other boys thought almost effeminate. Though he was certainly a ripe target, Isaac, however, was rarely if ever teased. Currently trudging along the cinder path from dodge ball, Isaac spoke to his best friend, Nathan. "This morning I read 'Shredni Vashtar' penned by the author Saki," he remarked. Dejected, Nathan looked over at him. "Boy, I hate reading. And I hate writing. I hate everything about this damn prison." "To what do you attribute the chief source of your woes?" quizzed Isaac. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance." Nathan gestured with his head at Miss Grinderswitch, who now stood scowling out the second-story window of her office. "The harridan canes me every morning before breakfast. Hard, too. Bah, what can you do, your head is always buried in a book?" Isaac's smile curled in the corners of his mouth like an asp. "Shredni Vashtar welded a mystical power over his keeper's enemies, you see." Snorting in disbelief, Nathan undid his reformatory school necktie. "I don't know about you, Isaac," he admitted. "You're growing weirder and weirder." That evening Mr. Weaver cooked his habitual sausage in a souvenir ashtray held over a beeswax candle. His cramped quarters were under the front stairwell, though unlike the boys, he enjoyed a door and lock for privacy. Before he could take a bite, a scratching at the brass knob drew his attention. "Hang fire, who's there?" he grunted. The door opened a crack and Isaac slithered inside, a picture book gripped to his chest. "Sir, I need your aid," he whispered. "I desire a tattoo like this." Isaac pointed to a color diagram of a heart with a dagger piercing it. A sawbuck danced before Mr. Weaver's eyes. Breaking out his gaudy dyes and hot needles, he did a dandy, albeit miniature, version on the heel of Isaac's foot. The boy never once flinched. The next morning, the sheriff's squad car shambled up to the school, but instead of discharging another J.D., Isaac overheard him speaking to the Vice-Principal. "Yep, her maid phoned it in," the sheriff solemnly muttered. "A butcher knife planted squarely in her ticker. Strange as the dickens. I'm starved for clues, too." The news soon swept through the reformatory school that Miss Grinderswitch had been brutally slain. There wasn't a dry eye in the whole institute from the sheer joy of it all. A few nights later, Mr. Weaver hung up his brooms and wrung out the mops. Tonight "Quincy" was on the little TV. After he retired to his private nook, a familiar scratching sounded at the knob. Angry, he swung open the door to confront the adolescent mischief-maker. Isaac Clay stood blinking up at him like a barn owl. "I need another tattoo," he declared. Mr. Weaver almost grinned. "Okay, what did you have in mind, kid?" Riffling through the picture book's pages, Isaac stopped and pointed. It was a cauldron overflowing with gleaming gold coins. Story copyright 2001 by Ed Lynskey e_lynskey@yahoo.com ------------------------------ CH017 Trevor's Junkyard by William Alan Rieser The entity was nothing at all like himself. It made the sire a trifle anxious and impulsive. The creature's imminence reminded him of an old lightshift, when a northern incursion of errant, mutant strays threatened his most creative spawn at that time. He permitted the thoughtless brood to satiate themselves with a host of lesser sirelings, if only to learn the depth of their decadence. Then, at the moment of shift, he demonstrated his unique method of accruing wisdom by absorbing their synapses en masse into his own. Most of what he learned had been useless.........until now. Incoming, singular and dormant, he thought, vainly trying to fathom its dream language. Was it a knowing, unintentionally destructive rock, similar to those he had previously prevented from cratering his beloved fields? This postulate was dispelled by the entity when it changed speed and course, ringing his fief in a spiral ellipse. That, of course, implied superior intelligence. Would it be interesting and instructive? Was it worthy? Could it reason as he? Its form was odd, orderly and refined, yet organic and adjustable like himself. It was a mystery, the tiny sire sparks within the larger. Very strange. Sentient, uncommunicative clutter, a new presentation. It made him think of cultivating the spreading colors of his unused translucent ocean combs. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the alien birthed above him, sending three ambassadors to his fief with unknown purpose. In response he opened an orifice and released a host of sophisticated gametes, eager for contact and sharing. These would delve the puzzle. The place of dual inquiries was established by them. Then he, being wise and full of time and sensibility, simply waited to observe and interpret their interplay. * * * * * The great automated prison junk steered itself into orbit around Sonce 5. Its cargo hold opened as shuttle carriers were pushed by heavy solenoids into launch position for their one-way journey to the surface. The stoic controllers were digital, unemotional and concerned only with the logical completion of their programmed tasks. None of these administrators possessed tear ducts or hearts, wishes, dreams or sensitivity to the plight of the humans frozen in the cargo containers. When the delay loop was completed in the primary junk software, the next command instructed the ignition systemics to engage the carriers. They exercised their function perfectly as designed and launched the vehicles sequentially into the Sonce 5 atmosphere. Before the enclosed criminals were finally, physically condemned, an unprogrammed action occurred aboard the massive junk that had delivered its biologicals with such precision and efficiency. A stowaway analog roach found an isolated place to establish its hovel. There were many electromechanical designs throughout the craft, but nearly all of those that employed relays used liquid state types. One relay had the distinction of being blithely mechanical, for it required a heavy current to force its engagement. It was the same used to route power to the giant engines when the junk initiated its journey from Earth's penal corridor in the Van Allen Belt. When the signal arrived to re-energize those engines for the return, the contacts failed to close through the body of the impertinent insect. The system had a catastrophic bug and both became functionally inoperative. The programmer never considered the possibility that the relay might fail to close nor was he well informed about the salient electrical characteristics of decaying Blatta Orientalis. The monitor circuitry definitely detected current. That it was in the milliamp range, rather than the five hundred amps required by the engines, became moot. The junk control sequence did not initiate because it depended upon engine generated flags to function. Ergo, the great craft went about its business, thinking that engine burn and trajectory were already accomplished, that it merely had to achieve the distance and time as delineated in its parameters. It would have to wait three years to discover the error and instruct a cybe to investigate and remedy the problem. In the meantime, the junk rode high in Sonce 5's lofty orbit, also slated to collapse after three years unless retros prevented that from happening. * * * * * "So, whatcha think, Trevor? Give it straight, OK?" "I think the rules are different here, Hank. We can't do on Sonce what we did on Earth. You want to be the top man, tell everyone what to do and when to do it? Before that can happen, we're going to need more than muscle." "How?" "Our folk are mostly bad asses like us. But, it isn't going to matter that you're the biggest and the strongest. It won't mean anything whether or not I'm the smartest. We're abandoned here and we've got to make it work on our own. The wardens don't give a shit about conditions on any of these maroon sites. Politics, you see. Whether we're comfortable or dead is irrelevant, a non factor. Undesirables are lumped together in carrier stew. As long as the atmosphere is breathable, they figure they've been humane." "I thought there were groups who were against it politically. Some people thought it was outrageous to mix murderers with thieves and fools." "Look where we are. Forgotten. Their consciences are unchallenged. As long as they don't personally kill us, they're absolved from guilt. It no longer concerns them as to what we did to deserve this trip. We're here." "Same as a death sentence." "All they legally had to do is put us where the flybys gave proof of livability. Survival isn't part of the equation, just plausible continuance. That's why the junk is designed to go back and leave us here." "Drop offs! Out of their hair at home. Freeze us in groups and wham!" "Exactly. Sentences are all similar. It lessens their mental burdens. The provisions won't last. Our fellow condemned are likely to get restless. Food, space, clothes, medicine and the like. You know, Hank." "Yeah." "The problem is, this place doesn't respond like what we know. The gravity is strange. Our weight changes every six hours or so. One minute we're flying, the next we're crawling like worms. Can't establish the pattern. The only way to guarantee the loyalty of these blokes is to solve the riddles of Sonce first. We can't make anything electronic work, for instance. Why not? Why do we have to operate things from inside the carriers? Is it the air, the dust or what? Then there is the food thing and that's bad. Nothing potable yet and no indigenous delicacies walking around." "Indij. . .?" "Animals, Hank! Ones that we can eat. The water isn't drinkable yet. And the plants are a risk until we know what they're about. You see?" "I see." "Right now, everybody is separated into a hundred groups; a hundred wannabes, none of whom have a clue. It's the wrong time to take over. We've got to be sharper than that. If we try it now, we'll fail because we don't have any answers that will be of use. We can start with a few, of course, but we need something special to expand. Once everyone realizes that we don't have anything different to offer, they'll just wander away and look for their own solutions." "Survival, Trev?" "Exactly. We've got to keep them all together to have a chance at making a go of it." "So, we take charge without letting anyone know that we're in control?" "I'm afraid so. It's like the tactic we used in Nicaragua. Subterfuge." "I remember. Carlos was the only one who could scrounge. We got to him, he got us the goods, we gave them out and had a hundred mercenaries in a week. How do we do that here? Ain't no Carlos lurkin' around." "No, there isn't. I'm going to have to revert myself." "You talkin' 'bout the egg-head you once was?" "Yep! I was a formidable scientist before my rebel implant. If I find any answers that we can use, we'll have a chance to pull this off. You'll have to watch over me. I've got to concentrate. I need solitude." "Don't care much for being alone." "Of course not. Still, there are some tough mothers with us. The last thing we need is a home grown menace making our lives difficult. I need your strength and experience." "Like we did in Luna City, Trev?" "Just like that, Hank. Just like it." * * * * * Perhaps the entity was more complex than he initially surmised. Incredibly, the aliens birthed a second time not three lightshifts after depositing themselves in a silver meadow, filled with ancient, domestic sap and stalks. Still, he could not achieve their thoughts, nor could they sense him or his creations that entirely surrounded them. They had locomotion and emitted audibles that tingled against his oldest buried tentacles. Still, either his cleverness or theirs had failed to manage rudimentary communication. Did they even know of his existence? "Jackpot," cried Trevor inside the carrier where he and Hank set up the lab. "I've got a fix on it. It's still in orbit." "That's odd," replied Hank. "I would have thought it would leave immediately. It's been a week. Do you suppose there's been a breakdown?" "Junk is junk, Hank. I never thought we'd get here in the first place. If it is a malfunction and it isn't corrected by the cybes, we'll have a way out of here." "Sounds too lucky, Trev. A lot of money was spent to get us out of the way. You'd think they'd be more careful." "Luck is what we make of it. If it's there . . . " "Enough. I agree. But, we're a long way from that. The water experiment failed, but now I know why. It isn't H2O something, like I thought. It's polarized." "So, we un-polarize it every six hours?" "Wrong! We un-polarize ourselves every six hours. We have to drink the shit. It's either that or we find the polar antithesis to Sonce 5 itself." "Seems like trouble." "Just a tad. Maybe someday. Right now, we need a magnetic catalyst, something to offset the gravity shift. Then we can worry about comestibles. We'll have to be careful with the vegetation. I haven't seen or heard about any animals." "Why don't I get some locals to scout for us? Heard them mention birds and lizards." "Our 'friends' won't do anything for anybody. Everyone wants to be the leader. No one is a grunt. Not a brain among them. We'll wind up being kings." "Kings of nothing. If we ever do get back, I want to attack Luna City first, OK?" "Fine by me, so long as you let me blow up the Nippodrome." "Deal!" * * * * * Based carefully on his observations, the sire concluded that making the aliens aware of his presence required an event. He must make it obvious so that they could not misinterpret his intent. Surely the beings were cognizant of concepts such as a greeting or dismissal. It bothered him that he failed to comprehend their simplistic capacities. If he could but infer meaning from one of their absurd actions, then perhaps.......... The sound of Hank's fist smacking into Moon's face could be heard all over the camp during lightshift. Moon rose quickly from the ground, a feat he never could have performed in Earth gravity, and saw men begin to congregate around him and his new opponents, Trevor and Hank. "What the fuck?" he asked, glowering at the hugeness of Hank. "You take too much for granted," answered Trevor. "It's just a frickin' lizard. Who cares if I step on the ugly thing?" "I care," said Hank with a malignant sneer. "You see, Moon, it may not be just a lizard. It has fur and what looks like a feather on its head. Might not be reptilian at all. Until we know for sure, I don't want you arbitrarily dismissing it." "Huh?" "Killing it, you moron. Suppose that creature knows all the secrets of this planet. Maybe it can tell us a few things, but can't speak our language. You ever think of that?" "What secrets?" "It knows how to eat and drink here. We don't." Moon stared at them with a blank look. Other men, hearing the conversation, got interested. "You mean, we can learn from it by watching it?" said one. "Absolutely," answered Trevor. "The first law of the jungle. Unless you prefer carrier water and the canned crap. It's already running out. "I saw one eating something over there," commented another. "It was in those bushes, clinging to a spongy, nasty looking growth." "That's a start," replied Trevor. "Anybody else?" "Saw the banana bird grab one of 'em and fly off," answered a third. "He's right, Moon. Don't step on any of 'em. They can teach us where to find food." Hank put his hand out to shake Moon's. They looked into each others eyes and, as Trevor punctuated the silence, the lizard dashed toward the bushes. "No hard feelings, Moon? We've got to help each other or we're all dead." "I guess. What do you want me to do?" Hank took it upon himself to solve another vexing problem. As much as Trevor required long periods of isolation, he also needed a woman for inspiration and a competent assistant. Finding Bella at that particular time felt something like destiny. True, she had been mauled and kicked bloodily out of a carrier for certain feminine excesses. She was also a technical, in spite of or possibly because of her nymphomania. Trevor and Bella hit it off immediately. "I can't amplify the field one jot more than a foot beyond my body," said Bella with dismay. "It's the same damned problem with the electronics." "We're not using our heads," suggested Trevor. "We really ought to be concentrating on the basics. The answer is likely to be a simple one. Why don't we build something totally insignificant and test it outside?" "Because we can't measure anything externally. All our equipment is useless the moment we expose it to Sonce atmosphere. We can't connect wires to anything in this junkyard. The signals, the voltages just stop. We can't scan by remote and we can't generate any kind of useful field." "I don't believe I mentioned testing from here on Sonce 5," commented Trevor with a mischievous grin. Bella picked up her head from the nanoscope she was using to observe water molecules. She looked up at the ceiling and thought. "The junk?" "Absolutely." "The flyover window would be six hours. That's more than sufficient." "We have but to establish the codes for remote access." "You're the code breaker. That's why you're here in the first place. Shit, we're kidding ourselves. How do we send a signal to the junk if we can't project anything further than a foot?" "You're thinking too horizontally, my sweet." "What? You mean the gravity is horizontal only? Isn't that impossible?" "I proved it during lightshift this morning. Sent a low wattage laser up to target a cloud. A banana bird crossed the beam. It bounced back." "Incredible. Then we can do it?" "As far as I know, we have to wait for the junk to pass by during lightshift. We may not have six hours. It could be reduced to minutes, but once we make contact we can map out the best windows for future tests." "Sounds like a plan. Let's do it!" "Ah, Hank. A propitious moment. Why, what's the matter?" Hank entered the carrier lab with none of his characteristic bravado. Trevor thought he recognized the first intimation of fear in his giant ally. "Remember the spongy growth?" "Yes. Somebody mentioned seeing it in bushes." "A kid found it, thought it was a mushroom. Ate it, too." "He died?" shot Trevor, voicing one of many nightmares. "He'd be better off, really," Hank shuddered. "Mushrooms sprouted all over the kid's body. Started replacing things like eyes and knees with blotchy fungus. I couldn't look at him anymore, what with his mother screaming at me to do something. It's eatin' the kid, Trev, and I don't like it." * * * * * Incredible, thought the sire after witnessing a wholly unusual event. The tiny spark tried to ingest one of his gametes. Was it sexual? A bizarre form of communication perhaps? Untraditional greetings, no matter how repugnant to him personally, required further study and consideration. He must not be hasty. * * * * * They gathered around Moon's crumpled body. He lay between the bushes before the forest of red stalks that marked the camp boundary. Many had seen him twitch and heard him scream during darkshift when no one could reach him. Now he was dead and still, covered with bloated skin mottlings. Blood oozed from his mouth and dribbled inartistically to the Sonce surface. The cause was equally obvious, a half-eaten lizard still clutched in Moon's rigid fingers. Trevor varied his gaze, looking first at the grim visages of the men and women who stared fixedly at the horror before them. Hunger and hopelessness were the signs. Then he looked at Hank and Bella nearby. He deliberately gave them the signal. The big man moved off to begin collating those of use. It shouldn't take long for that. "I warned him not to mess with that lizard," stated Trevor to the crowd. Their looks were anything but sympathetic. * * * * * Lightshift commenced more than four hours before the junk entered the opportunistic window. Trevor's laser penetrated the carrier in its ceiling at a spot where mating cables and equipment were connected for the experiment. The junk was detected and Trevor began his decoding via the tiny but powerful CPU he had scavenged from the transport computer. Bella excitedly called out the changing coordinates and compensated for the laser's divergence. Based upon their unsophisticated, even primitive reaction, the sire forced himself to admit he was in over his mentality. Yet, there was little he could do beyond observe and analyze. The new birthlings were completely unlike their sires, who lay as dead as stalk husks after a ravaging ocean storm. Different molecular elements made their structure and configuration totally incompatible with his gametes. Perhaps he could borrow from the experience just seen. * * * * * Bella stroked Trevor's face after their lovemaking. He turned his head and observed a green, flashing LED. "Got it!" shouted Trevor. "I've accessed the main console, believe it or not. The assholes never planned for this contingency. Now I can get this console to activate all the equipment we need. If you can master the coordinates, I can make the metrology stuff analyze anything we want." "We should start with that little battery operated fan circuit," suggested Bella. If it can tell us why that won't work, we'll have a chance to solve everything. I'll make more coffee." * * * * * The vibration had been unmistakable. Though it had innumerable offspring, the sire knew well each and every tremor of them. This was not a case of simple companionship, where a lonely skygle sought a friend during darkshift. This was unusual. His gamete was unmistakably yet utterly destroyed. It spoke of possibly intentional violence, a thing so rare that its implications were nearly misunderstood. He had to be sure. Could it be that the strange entities desired to end themselves? Were they asking for his assistance? Or were they natural irritants, risking everything because they knew nothing. The sire decided to test that startling hypothesis. * * * * * The cybe responded to its new instructions. Align the equipment so that it could scan the surface below. Set the coordinates for each pan and tilt so that they could automatically compensate for tracking changes. Pico-zoom each of the devices and manually set the captions for storage, analysis and retrieval. Activate spare power. When the tasks were completed, the cybe received a new instruction, telling it to be satisfied with a job well done. It was rewarded with a lube and a new fusion cube. Mechanically, it was quite happy. * * * * * "That's the answer," said Bella calmly. "There is no resistance on Sonce 5 during lightshift. Without opposition, anything designed to compensate for heat dissipation cannot function. I never thought such a thing could exist above absolute zero. It's a paradox." "It's hard to believe, I admit. I suppose we can redesign everything with optical fibers from the ducts," answered Trevor. "Nothing is to be considered a load. They will become integral. We can generate a field of immense proportions. The only equation is power." "Just voltage and current." "Shall we choose alternating, direct, indirect or a fusion source?" "Fusion ought to be the perfect complement. Still, we'll have to make it reverse every six hours automatically. We don't want to be burdened with switches." "No. Definitely not switches." * * * * * "You'd better have a look at this," said Hank, struggling to hand his binoculars to Trevor as they lay spreadeagled on the ground. "What are you looking for?" "Where Moon died. The bushes." Trevor peered through the lenses and focused on the place. He saw what Hank was worried about. "Uh oh!" he gasped involuntarily. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of small furry lizards staring at the half-eaten carcass which was left on the ground after Moon was buried; staring and vibrating their feathers, if they were feathers. Several seemed to glance at the carriers. There were numerous red, morbid stalks surrounding the clearing. One of them had partially absorbed one of the women from the second carrier. Hank recognized her, even as he saw that her struggles had ceased. A moment later, the woman's remains vanished. The only evidence of her existence was an olive colored blotch on the stalk. Then the lizards and stalks quickly melted noiselessly into the meadow's silver surface. * * * * * It hadn't worked, anguished the sire. The problem with not knowing was not knowing. Clearly, his idea of drawing attention did not match the alien's ability to perceive it. He would have to do something dramatic. Lightshift came as predicted by Trevor during the so-called Sonce night. Two suns made an Earthlike nighttime impossible as one darkshift always bisected the day into halves. Hank wore the newly conceived, breakthrough vest as he was the more athletic of the two. They stepped outside the lab at Bella's urging, not for the purpose of responding to what she referred to as an emergency, but to confirm their critical test. The locals were waiting. "Hi Trevor. You know me. I'm Carmine and we know Hank's rep." The carrier portal was surrounded in a semi-circle by the most hardcore of Sonce's human residents. The ranks were piled five deep. The silence was eerie, but Trevor did not detect overt hostility. Nothing, that is, that could oppose his new power. "We've got a problem," continued Carm. "I've got a solution," answered Trevor. "You'd better be right." "Why?" "Look past us. Take a gaze at the forest. What do you see?" Trevor looked over everyone's heads. At the boundary he saw the bushes that led up to the forest. At its edge he observed the large red stalks that sprang up from the ground in a thousand different angles and crimson hues. Between the stalks he saw what Carmine was concerned about. Floating through them, suspended in the air was a group of black, indistinct shapes; shapes that were massing for what seemed to be an assault on their position. This was partially confirmed by the fact that the forest extended across the viewable horizon. The shapes were uniform for the entire length and breadth of the boundary. Each bore a light colored feather, swaying ridiculously back and forth. There were many thousands of them. "Get everyone into the carriers right away," commanded Trevor. "That depends upon who's in charge here, doesn't it?" "They are in charge at the moment, idiot. Do you want to play king of the mountain now?" "It's now or never," answered Carmine without hesitation. In response to this threat, Hank activated his vest, just as Carmine lunged for him. Every single human being fell flat to the Sonce 5 surface, including Trevor. Hank alone was capable of standing. None could move nor could the indigenous Soncelings who sprawled in confusion on the turf at the boundary. Feathers stopped moving. Some red stalks were seen to crack and shatter in the distance. "Too. . . .strong!" yelled Trevor, barely able to get the words out of his throat. Hank tweaked a small lever in a hand held device. Suddenly, those who felt their chests constricted as they labored to breathe under the pressure were treated to a lessening. The stalks ceased their self-destruction as people were able to inhale and exhale. Many had bloody noses. The distant forest spawn found themselves without the means of locomotion and commenced wailing in low tones and strobed hues. "Worked better than we thought," said Trevor as Hank and Bella nodded. He addressed Carmine and his host. "If we release the lever, those monstrosities will be on us right quickly, I imagine. You folks will have to creep into your carriers. The effects are much less in there. You, Carmine, and your buddy Hank can come into the lab. You too, Bella." People moved and crawled. The carriers were entered and stuffed to their maximum capacities since Trevor's lab was limited to five. No one complained, considering the situation. It was enough to be able to breathe and stave off the Sonce troop deployment. * * * * * A worrisome new strangeness, thought the sire. The creatures could control the small shifting. Better to retire now and try again during the big shifting. Perhaps they did not know of it. If they did not, they would be greeted properly in the same manner as that demonstrated. It was the normal thing to do with strangers. Show them that we understand their unusual type of violent communication by duplicating it. Perhaps they would appreciate the gesture and respond favorably. If not, there were alternatives. * * * * * "Your normal MO won't work here," said Trevor. The five stood inside the carrier as he handed out canteens of water to Carmine, Hank and Bella. "For example, we have a single control, Hank's vest. Only we understand its use. If Hank here gets into it with you and the vest is damaged, we're all done for, gone, finished." Trevor watched as his words sunk in. He also observed carefully as the three swigged water from the canteens. "Congratulations! You are the first to drink Sonce 5 polarized water." Hank and Carmine tried to spit it out but it was too late. "Oh, don't be upset. The water is safe. It's just that, without a vest, from now on you'll have to be inside a carrier during darkshift. Otherwise you'll crack like those stalks did outside. We knew what you were planning. No, Bella didn't give you away. It's always the same. Schoolyard polemics, junkyard politics. Well, welcome to my junkyard." "So, what are we? Prisoners?" spat Carmine with disgust, eyeing Hank peripherally and wondering whether he could take on Trevor's dog. "No, actually. No more than we all are. It's just that we have need of your limited talents, Hank, Bella and I. Now don't go and do something stupid. I know you gentlemen prefer being in charge of things. In a normal situation you probably would be, but that can't happen here. Do you want to get out of this mess?" "Of course we do." "Then you will do as I say." "And if we don't." "Then, my friend, I'll feed you to the beasties. I mean it. I'm offering you your lives. I'm giving you a chance to make something of yourselves. When was the last time you had spiritual encouragement like that?" "What's in it for us, other than living longer?" "Well, we haven't worked out the details yet, but I think we can plan for a certain amount of vengeance. Hank and I are particularly fond of payback ourselves. Bella has diaries filled with dreams of justice. Beyond that . . . " "You mean we can go back?" asked Carmine with wonder. Hank reacted with shock, finally hearing Trevor say it was possible. "With your cooperation, yes!" "I'll be damned. A month here is enough for me. But, we're almost out of food. How can you handle that?" "That's partly why we need you. Are you ready to listen? Or do you prefer to stay on this travesty, waiting for who knows what?" Carmine, Hank and Bella looked at each other and shrugged. Then all four started to laugh and soon sat down together on cushions. They began to seriously discuss the options. They were amazed with some of Trevor's ideas, startled by his ingenuity and depth of planning. Perhaps they were not as doomed as the wardens of Earth had pronounced so easily. * * * * * Clearly, they were more resilient that he had believed. To thrive within lightshift was a talent he had presumed for himself only. Now there was another. If it would not make speech with him, he must be more wary. They seemed to have indecipherable powers, couched in flimsy bags of moving sap. Samples of vegetation were gleaned from the forest. Unlike those before the boundary, several varieties proved edible when tested and modified in Trevor's lab with Bella's kluge gene splicer. Meat was out of the question, however. It was too risky in the wake of Moon's experience. Bella did her best to make the blandness palatable. Soon, the colonists had three or four dishes that more or less sated hunger, especially after one worthy soul invented a decent natural spice from a buried tuber-like growth. Trevor worked like a fanatic, never taking his eyes off Carmine. Too well did he understand criminal mentality, knowing the host were just waiting for a real advantage before making their move. Such men would rather die than be dominated, especially by those they considered 'weird.' Trevor made certain that he kept distance between them. He worked out a strategy so that they did not have time to coordinate anything against him. He didn't believe for a minute that his promises had actually inspired loyalty. On the other hand, they were tremendous workers when properly motivated by impending destruction. It was best to make use of them for as long as possible, until their egos resurfaced. This dilemma occupied him less and less as he became aware of still another Sonce phenomenon. "It's fifty-fifty, Bella. Even if I'm wrong, there should still be enough time to flip the lever. We'll have to be in the carrier when the polar shift happens. If it follows normal system patterns, there will be quakes and eruptions." "What if those creatures descend upon us at that moment? How do we know that they aren't planning to do that? No doubt they've adapted." "We can't know that. We also can't pin down the time or length of the shift. All we can do is make assumptions. I know, it's poor, but our alternatives are few. I'm going to have Hank and Carmine scout the forest for signs. At least we have a second vest. The improved version will be educational for our friends." * * * * * Carmine and Hank were within visual. Each stood on a flat rock-like substance and scanned the nearby stalks for signs of the black things. Sonce's silvery surface shook abruptly and the sky turned from gray to ebony in a moment. The entire quake lasted less than ten seconds, but it was sufficient. Both men stumbled and fell off their natural platforms, losing sight of each other. The pressure was normal, unlike that which occurred between light and darkshifting and they could easily stand. In the lab, Bella hit her head against some metal obstruction and was knocked unconscious. Trevor got pinned by a falling metal shelf of failed gravity experiments. He was unable to reach the lever on his vest. A workbench toppled and destroyed the latest experiments. The sire, who had patiently timed the shift, popped his head more fully out of the ground where Hank had been standing on him. The human witnessed the sire's features and screamed. Carmine heard and came running toward the fearsome sounds. He was just in time to fully observe the scene. Hank was paralyzed by the mere sight of the behemoth. He could not move as the bulbous, black head descended. A maw, not previously seen, appeared in the amorphous shape. Tendrils sprang out of the mouth and grabbed Hank in his helplessness. "Ple-e-e-a-se!" shouted Hank in mortal terror. It was no good. Carmine watched in horror as the sire expended its strength and severed Hank's body. It engulfed the upper torso and left the lower portion on the ground, just as had been orchestrated by Moon when he tried to eat the gamete. Then, in a twist of irony, the sire developed ugly blotches all over its bulk. It began to shake from side to side and tried to spit out what it had ingested. Too late, it demonstrated the poisonous effect on its system and sagged into stillness. Green liquid emanated from drooping lips, making its analogy to Moon exact in its death. Then it allowed the silvery turf to absorb him as before. By the time Carmine returned to the lab, everything was different. The people were terrorized, Hank was dead, Bella was comatose, Trevor was traumatized with a broken arm and the lab itself was in a shambles. Only Carmine was in control of himself. He decided to act for the common good, after borrowing the second vest, of course. He found out how to work some of it after the poles re-shifted. Trevor awoke to find a splint on his right arm. Bella was wrapped in blankets on one of the lab cots, attended by Carmine. Her head was bandaged. Carmine stood before him, blocking out the light from the single surviving lamp. "I could kill you now, you know that," stated Carmine. "I'm very good at killing, but not anywhere near as clever as you are. Hank is gone and your friend is out of it. Your only mistake so far is not planning for medical. I would have done that. It doesn't look like we're going to get out of this shit, after all." "I understand," answered Trevor, noticing the vest on Carmine's chest. "So, as I thought, you have taken advantage of your moment. Now, what are you going to do with it?" "Actually, Trevor, I'm going to do something I never believed possible. It goes against the grain, against my traditions, my history, my family and everything else in my life so far." "And what is that?" "I'm going to concede. It's over my head and I admit it. Just get us the fuck away from this place, OK?" "It's a deal," laughed Trevor with as much pain as he was willing to share. "Now listen up. We were on the brink of making things work when the polar shift happened. We can still make it work, but without Bella it will take a long time. Your job is to make her comfortable and try to bring about a recovery. Pick men for food and water patrols. I'll need an assistant for lab work after we straighten this place up. Anyone will serve. Other than that, the rest is up to me. Like I said, this is my junkyard." "Where will we go, if we can reach the junk up there?" asked Carmine reasonably. "Junk, as you might know, is a Chinese term for craft. It was not meant to be derogatory. It reminds me of an old curse of theirs. 'May you live in interesting times,' usually spoken to a conquering enemy. It's an open question. Maybe I'll put it to a vote. Or maybe we'll quench our emotional thirst, somewhere on Earth. After this, we need a little nourishment." * * * * * The junk sank quite prematurely to the lowest point in its orbit. Without compensation from the attitude stabilizers, the massive ship lost its ability to restrain the magnetic pull of Sonce 5 and begin an undirected plunge through the atmosphere. Cybes were suddenly energized and given specific instructions. The primary software found itself taxed with a new loop. The husk of the long dead roach was finally discovered and removed. Static initializers were switched to active. Deep within the stalk forest, the sire re-emerged triumphantly to watch the drama in his sky. He saw the beam of light shoot out of the strange creature's tiny domain and touch the large alien sire that circled his fief. It began to move further away. Then he observed the creatures, watching with amusement as all the little carriers lifted above the surface and rose to join the massive skygle. They were not good neighbors, he thought. They did not understand friendship at all. It was better to be rid of them, misfits all in spite of his help. He decided to stop the shifting for several rotations to commemorate their leaving. The condemned entered the junk with joy and ecstasy. They had accomplished what none believed possible, escape! There was enough time to be grim and purposeful later. Now was a time for celebration. Trevor and Carmine led the festivities and notched hero status in the minds of their followers. It was then, while the prisoners gathered about the cargo bay in riotous fashion, that the sire lifted the lightshift. Darkshift became predominant, changing the gravitational pull on the junk in dramatic fashion. Some were too drunk to feel the lurch as the junk began its descent. Trevor suspected the truth, but did not live long enough to test the hypothesis empirically. They are incredibly powerful, thought the sire. For once he admitted to himself that there were others of consequence, no matter their behavior. It would be best after all, to absorb them and learn. Story copyright 2001 by William Alan Rieser WRieser283@aol.com ------------------------------ CH018 The Weapon by Michael Elmore Walter called me at 3:30 in the afternoon. I work nights, so I was pretty groggy when I finally answered. I know he spoke for a while, but all I remember is that he wanted me to come over to his house. He was waiting for me in the backyard shed he'd converted into a shop. A lump of shiny metal, about the size of a fist, occupied the center of the workbench. Walter sat in a folding lawn chair. His face was flushed, and he looked exhausted. "There it is, Darvis" he said, and pointed to the lump. Walter is a half-assed inventor. He comes up with a new idea every two to three weeks. I felt severely annoyed that he'd interrupted my sleep to show me his newest crackpot device. I promptly began to unleash a steady stream of curses on him and his family. Ignoring me, he stood and picked up the lump. I promptly shut up. The metal lump had oozed around Walter's hand, kind of like a thick pudding. "What is that stuff?" I asked. "It's a Weapon," he answered. The absurdity of the situation struck me speechless. "Watch," he said, as he began manipulating the metal-colored pudding with his hands. After mere seconds of shaping, the pudding took the form of a large revolver. "Cool, huh?" he asked, smiling stupidly. Walter walked outside, and I followed. Light reflected brightly from the revolver's chrome surface. Next door, Carl Ramers, Walter's obnoxious neighbor, pulled into his driveway in his SUV. "Hi, guys!" Carl shouted, as he waved from his gas-guzzling monstrosity. The echo of the slamming car door announced Carl's assault. Walter and I cringed as Carl vaulted the row of bushes separating Walter's property from his. "Let's go inside, Walter," I pleaded. Carl was halfway across the lawn, maybe ten feet away from us, wearing his usual annoying smile. "Observe, Darvis" Walter said coolly. He leveled the gun at Carl and fired. * * * * * Karl's clothes fell into a pile on the ground, and his now-empty shoes tumbled to a stop. Gray powder floated in a large cloud, in and around the area where Karl had been walking. I stepped forward, shocked, to investigate. "Save your energy," Walter said. "It's only dust." "Say what?" "Dust," he replied. "You know, 'man thou art dust' and 'to dust thou shalt return.'" "You turned Karl into dust?" I whispered. "No, Darvis. One of my theories about the Weapon is that it can regress human targets. Thus, he's returned to his original state." Walter wandered into his kitchen, with me following in his wake, and he fetched two beers from the fridge. "So how does that thing work?" I asked, still stunned but now beginning to worry -- about a lot of things, not only the police but also my own safety. Walter considered the question for a few minutes, and then answered slowly. "It causes random, existential changes in its targets. It changes plants from one type to another. A tree into a flower, a blade of grass into a dandelion, and so on. It can even turns birds into rocks." "And humans into dust," I interrupted, feeling both terrified and awed. "Sometimes, Darvis" he answered. "Other times, it's either had no effect or has sped the target up. Made them live faster. I think that's what happened to Ms. Dunwoody. She lives across the street, but I don't think I really harmed her." I'd never met her, and told Walter so. An odd idea began forming in my brain. I asked for the Weapon, which was again in its lump state. "How do you make it work?" I asked. "Think of your hand becoming something." I thought of a short sword, and it became one. Then I thought of a baseball bat, and again, it became one. Finally, I thought of a Beretta nine-millimeter, and placed the barrel against my forehead. * * * * * Darvis put the Weapon to his head. I wasn't surprised. In fact, I'd expected him to do this. "So, Walter," he spoke casually. "How did you come to make this thingy?" "I dreamed it, just as I dreamed all of the others," I replied. He didn't wait for me to inquire about his actions; he started explaining rapidly, in a calm and controlled voice. "I got this theory, Walter. If this Weapon regresses people, or devolves them, then I figure there's a way to make it do the opposite. What I need to know is how you devolved Karl, and how that process is reversed." "I have another theory, Darvis," I said. "I think you've maybe only completed part of the puzzle. Perhaps the Weapon only evolves people. Good old Karl just wasn't going to amount to anything more than dust." "You brought me here to test your theory," Darvis said, with a wide, wolfish grin. I nodded. "Cool. Well, shake my hand and I'll be off." We shook, and he pointed the gun at his face and fired. Blinding, white light poured out of the hole that the blast tore in his forehead. Weapon still in hand, Darvis stood, and then bent over double, puking light all over my kitchen floor. Light poured from every orifice in his body. His eyes, ears, mouth, and, I assume, his anus. Even his pores seemed to open up and leak light. His whole being became distorted and insubstantial behind all of the amazingly bright illumination. And then there was an audible pop, and the light ceased. Darvis, and the Weapon, were gone. I sat alone in my kitchen, drinking beer, and mourning the loss of yet another good invention. Story copyright 2001 by Michael Elmore elmore21@msn.com ------------------------------ CH019 The Barbarian's Tale by Lee Daniel Guest With axe and sword I slashed my way, For crowns and kingdoms lost, Through the darkest days, the gloom-filled nights, White winters with shimmering frost. I've slain foul beasts that hungered for blood, I've achieved my murderous goals, But ever the evil returns again, No rest for my poor soul. My memories are rife with emerald fire, Of wars for lust and glory, The songs and rhymes throughout the world, Ring out my blood-ridden story. The galleys, the cities, the towers and terrors, The gold that shone like the sun, I hope I'll remember the rest of my days, The beauty, the horror, the fun. Oh! I've killed a gray beast in an ebony city, I've taken great kingdoms by force, I have no riches or treasures to speak of; I reckon it's part of the course. Some times in the moonlight I still hear the hiss, The sting of vile fangs on my skin, What times I have had and what days I have lived, I shall tell to but few of my kin. Have all of these years in my past been a waste? Is it fate that gave me this role? For vile writhing snakes to hunger my blood, As sorcerers hunger my soul? Now my eyesight is fading, the night closes in, I fight as an aging man, But the knowledge, the strength of all of my years, Allow me to win when I can. Of crowns, of kingdoms, of beasts and betrayers, My life has had its fill, Far, far away in vast monstrous lands, I remember the thrill of them still. Poem by Lee Daniel Guest ldguest@btinternet.com ------------------------------ CH020 On September 22nd, 2001, the Deep Space 1 space probe flew within 1,400 miles of 6-mile long Comet Borrelly. Observers were suprised by its structure... Comet Borrelly by Romeo Esparrago lone, cold, barren flaring down cosmic alley lane God's lost bowling pin Poem and illustrations copyright 2001 by Romeo Esparrago public@romedome.com ------------------------------ CH021 Paint The Planet Red by Andrew G. McCann I have been to Mars: there's no night-life at all, yet... the mornings are fierce Haiku copyright 2001 by Andrew G. McCann andy@planetmag.com